


The Holiday

by crinklefries



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Steve Rogers, Baldur is a huge dick I'm not sorry, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes is a Mess, Bucky Barnes the Movie Star, Cameos Galore!, Extreme Amounts of Fluff, Extreme Amounts of Sass, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Loki and Thor are not related in this one, M/M, New Years, Past Relationship(s), Slow Build, every holiday cliche, holiday au, honestly Loki is so angsty, honestly the pets are the star of this fic, this is a romcom, time is a social construct so ignore any discrepancies, who asked for an extremely long holiday fanfic because you got it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-14 18:47:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 90,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13013916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries/pseuds/crinklefries
Summary: There’s a listing for a home exchange just outside of Liverpool, a charming, very English stone cottage with a garden, just a stone’s throw from the water. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a fireplace, a kitchen, only a 15 minute drive into the city proper.Bucky:Hey, I’m very very interested in renting your cottage for the next few weeks. I live in NYC, in a nice apartment in Chelsea. No roommates, just a grumpy cat named Tom who won’t bother you as long as you talk to him sometimes. He likes roast chicken. He’s weird, but cute.Loki:I have never met a cat that I did not like. The dog is my roommate’s, I would much prefer a cat.Loki:I have not been to NYC during the holidays for many a year. Is two weeks acceptable to you?***Heartbroken, burned out, and aimless, both Bucky Barnes and Loki Laufeyson are in desperate need of just getting away. When these two strangers agree to switch homes and lives for the holidays, what they find, and who they meet, may be exactly what they needed all along.[ A Marvel (stucky/thorki) RomCom AU of the greatest of all holiday movies, The Holiday ]





	1. The Break Up

**Author's Note:**

> Out of the depths of my post-Thanksgiving, turkey-addled mind came one thought and one thought only: if my favorite Marvel characters and ships starred in my favorite holiday movie of all time, The Holiday, who would they be? 
> 
> Over 60,000 words (and counting) later, I present to you, for your reading pleasure: The Holiday. 
> 
> There will be 12 chapters, with one chapter posted each day, as a fun nod to the 12 Days of Christmas. The final chapter will be posted on Christmas! Each chapter will alternate, for the majority of the fic, between Bucky's POV and Loki's POV. The last three chapters will have both of their POVs.
> 
> If you enjoy only one of these ships and not the other, I encourage you to give the other a chance for the purposes of this fic! Maybe I'm biased, but I think both are pretty damn compelling and pretty damn cute.
> 
> s/o to my beta, [@Neda](https://spains.tumblr.com), my main girl since my time in footie fandom, a girl who always encourages me by yelling at me to write when I'm too lazy to do so. 
> 
> And finally--Happy Holidays! I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this completely, unnecessarily long holiday fic. :)

 

***

“That’s a wrap for today!” the director, a borderline egomaniac with a biting, sometimes inappropriate sense of humor, aggressively neurotic personality, and, somehow, incomparable artistic vision, by the name of Tony Stark, shouts. “Good job, folks. Well, mostly me. But some of you too. Yes, you, Parker. You were fine. No, I will not say it on your Instagram story. Yes, you too, Maximoff. Please stop stealing props from the set. What? No, not you, Lang. You literally did nothing. Get me some coffee.”

Bucky takes off his war helmet, a carefully crafted, extremely accurate, and, frankly, too heavy prop that's making his head ache, as though everything else -- particularly Stark’s shouting -- wasn’t. His hair is curling from sweat, stuck to his forehead in, what he is sure, is an incredibly flattering modern hairstyle.

A young woman with long brown hair, braided to the side, with an entire arm full of bracelets, comes to him with a cold bottle of Smart Water.

“Thanks,” Bucky says, unscrewing the lid and gulping down half the bottle in one swallow.

“Mr. Barnes,” the young woman says, uncertainly. Her accent and coloring are Romani, which Bucky knows because Pietro’s younger sister once caught him while in the makeup chair and gave him a full hour lecture on Romani rights. Wanda is a wonderful personal assistant, but her enthusiasm for her college degree often overwhelms Bucky’s high school educated ass, not because of the big words, but mostly because after a long day of shooting, the only remaining thoughts in Bucky’s brain tend to be "nngh" and “pizza” and, sometimes, “please.”

“Yeah?” Bucky runs a hand through his sweaty hair, frowning as a smashed curl flops onto the middle of his forehead.

“Miss Romanoff is waiting for you in your trailer.”

“Ah shit,” Bucky curses. Natasha Romanoff waiting for him in his trailer has never, not once, resulted in anything less than Bucky wishing he had just gone to college like his mom and dad had wanted him to.

“Reshoots, people!” Tony’s voice shouts in the background. Everyone is hustling around the field, a green patch in upstate New York where they often film their field battle scenes. “Is this thing on? Hello?”

Tony obnoxiously taps at his headpiece and his production assistant, a formidable strawberry blond by the name of Pepper Potts, tsks in exasperation and calls out in a voice that no one, not even Tony, dares to ignore.

“Peter, Pietro, and America, you three stay. We have to schedule reshoots of your scene.”

The three young actors silently stifle their groans and shuffled forward towards Pepper. Bucky watches them and hands his helmet to Wanda, who takes it unquestioningly. He gives the crew a half-hearted, exhausted smile and approaches Tony.

“Tony,” he says. “My shoots done?”

“Barnes! The golden boy himself,” Tony says, looking up from an iPad that Pepper had shoved into his hand when he hadn’t been paying enough attention to avoid. “How’d that feel? Did it feel good to you? It felt good to me.”

“It felt good to me,” Bucky says, trying not to sound as though he's parroting Tony out of impatience, which, to be clear, he absolutely is. “Pepper sent Wanda the new schedule -- I didn’t see anything on for me?”

“Oh she did that? When did she do that? Pretend I told her to do that,” Tony says, muttering rapidly, as Tony Stark was wont to do. Then he waves his iPad around a little vaguely. “We’re doing reshoots and then the finale. Can’t do a finale without our golden boy.”

“Stop calling me that,” Bucky says, irate and annoyed. “When is that?”

“It’s whenever we start filming it,” Tony says, looking back down at the iPad. “Maybe after the holidays. We’ll call you in for the cold reading. Don’t flee the country if you can help it.”

“No promises,” Bucky mutters under his breath, but Tony is already distracted.

“That’s not the scene we discussed, Pepper! Pepper? Pepper!” Tony turns around, already having forgotten Bucky. Tony Stark might be an artistic genius, a revolutionary in the medium of television, and the person to bring Bucky Barnes back to New York City, but Tony Stark was also the single most aggravating person Bucky has ever met in his life.

At least he wasn’t dating him. He wasn’t entirely sure he could say the same for Pepper Potts.

“Mr. Barnes,” Wanda appears at his elbow again.

Bucky actually, physically winces.

“Natasha,” he says, with not a little bit of resignation. “I know.”

  
Natasha Romanoff had beautiful, wavy red hair halfway down her back, when she wanted it. Her eyes were a bright green that could skewer a man with just a flicker and she had curves in all of the right places. She was a bombshell and she knew it. Born in Russia, she had moved stateside as a child and lost her Russian accent when she was younger, but she still had Cyrillic characters tattooed behind both of her ears. Sometimes she wore a suit, but today she was in almost all leather, with bright green nails. If looks could kill, Natasha Romanoff likely could and would have killed every man within the entire borough of Manhattan without breaking a sweat.

She was also one of Bucky’s oldest friends and, unfortunately, his publicist.

“James,” Natasha says as he comes up the small steps into his trailer. The trailer wasn’t very big to begin with, but Natasha Romanoff on his couch, long legs crossed, a magazine in her hands and a slight, dangerous thinness to her lips certainly made the trailer seem smaller than it even was.

“Aw shucks, Nat,” Bucky drawls, stripping out of his World War I Sergeant’s jacket and throwing it unceremoniously onto the couch next to her. “You came all the way here just to see little old me? I got a phone, you know. FaceTime and all.”

“You screen your calls, first of all,” Natasha says, unimpressed. “Especially when the caller is your publicist.”

“Seems fake,” Bucky says. He pulls the sweaty t-shirt he had been wearing under his costume up and over his head, flinging it onto a different chair. Natasha watches the motion with distaste. “But go on and tell me the second of all.”

“Second of all, when my biggest client is purposefully destroying his image, it calls for a visit.”

“I’ve been in a field shooting World War I battle scenes for the past week, Natasha,” Bucky says. “How exactly have I been doing all that? That’s impressive, even for me.”

Natasha flings the magazine she had been holding at him. Bucky catches it out of reflex and, raising an eyebrow, looks at the magazine cover.

 **_  
_** **CHEATING SCANDAL: BUCKY BARNES CAUGHT KISSING HIS CO-STAR PIETRO MAXIMOFF.**  
 **GIRLFRIEND OF THREE YEARS, DOTTIE UNDERWOOD, HEARTBROKEN.**

  
“When did I kiss Pietro?” Bucky asks, looking confused.

“You tell me,” Natasha says. Her tone is even, inflectionless, which is the most dangerous version of Natasha Romanoff.

“I didn’t do that,” Bucky says, frowning and handing it back to her.

“Do you remember, James? What you asked of me? When I took you on as my client?” Natasha waits, arms and legs crossed.

"I said a lotta things," Bucky mutters.

“You said that there was only one thing you needed me to do," Natasha says, her eyes flashing dangerously. "You asked and I have covered your sorry ass ever since.”

Bucky feels at once tired and ashamed and angry. He swallows and turns his head, a familiar and unwelcome stone weight in his chest.

“Nat, you asked,” Natasha, merciless, leans forward. “I’m bisexual. I don’t want anyone to know. Please, just make sure no one kn--”

“I know what I asked, Natasha,” Bucky says, sharp and angry this time.

Natasha isn’t fazed, but she does lean back a little.

“For six years I have hid every hook up, every spotting at a gay night club, every time you got drunk and flirted with a bartender and went home with him. Did I do that?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, not looking at her.

“So tell me, James, why _Us Weekly_ has a photograph of you and Pietro Maximoff kissing,” she says, calmly.

Bucky blinks rapidly, feeling the nausea rise. This wasn’t an uncommon feeling with him, the ground shifting beneath his feet, the very basic foundations of his life slipping through his fingers, like sand through an hourglass or hopefully something slightly less cliche.

“It was nothing,” Bucky says. “We were just blowing off steam.”

“We have _one rule_ ,” Natasha says and this time she’s angry, Bucky can actually hear it. “What is our _one rule_?”

“Call you,” Bucky mutters.

“Louder.”

“Call you,” Bucky says, louder. “If and when I hook up with someone, no matter how big or how small, call you so you can handle it.”

“Yes, James,” Natasha says and he swears that if she could be breathing fire through her nose, she would be doing just that. “You call me so that I can handle it so that something _like this exact thing_ does not get out to the press and ruin the America’s Heterosexual Heartthrob image you’ve so carefully curated for yourself.”

“Well you don’t have to make me feel like an ass about it,” Bucky mutters. “I’m just not ready.”

Natasha doesn’t answer that for a moment and when Bucky looks back at her, he’s half afraid that she’s actually going to have turned into a fire-breathing dragon. Instead, to his surprise, her stance has softened, the angry lines gone from her shoulders and brows. She looks less like the formidable, hard-driving publicist that she is and more like the friend he has known for half of his life.

“I know that,” she says quietly. “I’m never going to pressure you to come out, you know that right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, exhaling a slight amount of the weight off his shoulders. He pushes his jacket out of the way and slumps onto the couch next to Natasha. “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Natasha says and, in an astonishing and unfamiliar gesture of affection, smooths back his unruly hair. “But you have to fix this. I’ll find a way to spin the picture, say it’s photoshopped or a joke or something. You know what you need to do.”

“Double time with Dottie?” Bucky tries not to wince.

“Far be it from me to tell you what to do with your life outside of the public sphere, but it’s kind of an asshole move for you to be leading that girl on. It’s been three years,” Natasha says.

“I like her,” Bucky says. “I’ve been with her for three years.”

“If three years into your relationship all you can say of your girlfriend is that you like her and that spending time with her in public is ‘double time,’ then I have some concerns about the foundations of that relationship.”

“Yeah,” Bucky snorts. “And does Clint know you’re not actually a Russian spy yet?”

“That’s completely different,” Natasha says, loftily. “Clint and I haven’t been together for three years. We’re not even together now. And I could be a Russian spy, for all you know.”

“Yeah, okay, Nat,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes.

“Apologize to your girlfriend for the massive publicity storm she’s going to have to sit through for the next month and get off that cute little ass of yours and take her out on a date,” Natasha says, lightly tapping Bucky’s cheek with her palm twice. Her tone leaves no room for argument.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky grumbles. It wasn’t the worst directive in the world, to be told to go on a date with your girlfriend. And he likes Dottie, he really does, she was a hell of a gal.

It’s just that, well, Bucky couldn’t help the sinking feeling that he could never really muster up the interest or the energy to really be happy with her.

But then, that was Bucky’s problem in general too.

  
Bucky Barnes was a successful Hollywood actor. He wasn’t always the leading man in a critically acclaimed HBO series. _The Howling Commandos_ had just finished airing half of its first season and it already had a devoted following, with rumors being bandied about it competing with some of the heavy hitters during Awards Season. Bucky’s Twitter follower count had grown from 757K to 3.6M what seemed like almost overnight, which he always thought was rather hilarious because the majority of his tweets, when he remembered to tweet at all, were just pictures of his cat, Tom.

It hadn’t always been that way and he tried never to forget that.  
  
Bucky had discovered acting in middle school, around the same time he had come to the terrifying realization that while his friends were developing crushes on girls, he was developing crushes on boys too. The secret had weighed on him, anxiety building on structures of anxiety, until, one day, he had burst into tears in front of his favorite teacher and  Mr. Coulson had suggested channeling some of his anxiety into theater. It hadn’t overtly helped him with his sexual orientation crisis, but he had immediately found comfort in the dark recesses of the school theater, had found himself more comfortable in his skin when he could pretend to be in someone else’s. He had taken to acting like a flower turned toward the sun and the rave reviews of his lead performances during his high school productions spoke to as much.

Bucky had harassed his parents to take him to audition after audition and when they refused to moved to L.A. to chase his pipe dreams, he had taken singing and dancing and acting lessons and auditioned himself for a part on Broadway in the musical _Cats_ and somehow, strangely, in a very appropriate twist of fate, someone had decided he was their ideal choice to be a Cat.

Being a Cat led to more successful auditions and a surprisingly intense and critically acclaimed performance in a small Broadway play about a man who could hear colors and whose only desire was to be in space with his dog that had just died, led to a Tony Award and it was all uphill from there. He had moved to Los Angeles, done more than a few movies, some very good, some very very bad, and when Tony Stark had given him the call, well it had been a no brainer.

Bucky had always loved and missed New York City.

And he was happy here, he tried to remind himself, again and again. He was successful here, had a show that had inspired legions of fans and had given his agent, Maria, a lot of material for other offers to read through on his behalf. His girlfriend of three years, also an actress and, strangely, a host on a cooking competition on the Food Network, was tall and blonde and beautiful, with a charming demeanor and a wicked sense of humor.  
  
He liked her quite a lot or, at least, well enough.

  
He sits across from her at _Daniel_ , on their third course now, staring off behind her right shoulder as she discusses something that he probably should have been paying attention to, but could not bring himself to even pretend to care about, at all.

“You’re rather maudlin today, James,” Dottie says over her lamb.

It strikes him, with rather sudden clarity, how irritating it is that he has asked her to call him Bucky for the past three years and that she had just decided that because she didn’t like how it sounded, she wasn’t going to use it at all.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, swallowing his irritation and drawing his eyes back to her.

Long, blonde hair swept into a low chignon on her neck, with curls delicately falling out in just the right places and framing her lovely face, light hazel eyes rimmed in enough kohl to bring them out, but not to overpower, pearls at her throat, long limbs dressed in a romantic, gauzy dress that draped and flowed elegantly, Dottie Underwood was one of the most stunning creatures in the acting world. Virtually every celebrity gossip rag, blog post, and tabloid agreed. Bucky Barnes was no slouch himself, so their relationship had been under intense scrutiny and speculation since it started, the pride and joy of the social media world.  It had been enjoyable enough at first, the paparazzi snapping rather photogenic pictures of them walking Dottie’s puppy down the street, or getting ice cream after a long day of shooting, or Bucky picking her up or Dottie dropping him off. And then it all just kind of started blurring in his head. Even her lovely features, which had once drawn him to her with the magnetic force of their charm, seemed fine at best.

Perhaps he was being, as she intuited, maudlin.

“Drink your wine, darling,” Dottie says, dabbing at her lips with a cloth napkin.

 _I’ll drink it when I want_ , Bucky grumbles inside, rather childishly, but, in reality, does exactly that.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, after downing his glass of wine. He had already come to the date a beer in, so the wine helps further loosen some of those tightly wound nerves. He actually manages to smile at her and it isn’t fake. “About the picture. It was a dumb joke, so of course everyone’s making a big deal about it. It’s not gonna be fun for the next few weeks, I’m really sorry.”

Dottie looks...well, less than impressed. She takes another small bite of lamb, dabs again. She dabs after every bite, like some kind of careful, rigid, over-elegant star from the 1930s. It drives Bucky absolutely insane. A waiter immediately refills his wine glass and he grasps it by the stem, ready to dive in again.

“James,” Dottie finally smiles. It’s small at first and then relaxes into a bigger, fonder smile. “I am sorry. Bucky. It is all forgiven. There is nothing to forgive at all.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, so relieved he doesn’t even notice the name change. He lets his shoulder slump slightly and drinks some more of his wine. Then he puts it down and reaches for a roll from the bread basket. “It was just a dumb joke. Honestly, they’ll make up rumors about anything. Remember when they said you had become a Scientologist?”

Bucky laughs, remembering. Dottie had found it horrifying and funny at the time, but now she looks...less than impressed. It is not an uncommon expression on her face this evening.

“That was...an unfortunate rumor,” she says, wrinkling her nose a bit. She has a small, sharp nose. It’s cute when she wrinkles it like that, almost makes her seem human.

“You lost your phone for two days and I _really_ thought the Church had finally snatched you,” Bucky says. He snickers around a mouthful of bread.

“Yes,” Dottie says and she softens for a moment, also smiling at the memory. Then, subtly, her demeanor changes. “We have had rather good memories, haven’t we?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, with his famous, charming, wolfish grin.

“You do know I love you, don’t you?” Dottie says, carefully.

“Yeah,” Bucky says and even manages to beam at her. He drinks more of his wine. It’s great. This is great. “I like you a whole lot too.”

There is a very, very pregnant pause.

Bucky wouldn’t have noticed, except that Dottie’s entire body goes so frigid, he actually becomes concerned.

“Dot--?” he starts and, suddenly, Dottie puts her cutlery down, a little forcefully.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, James!” she explodes a little. “We have been dating for three years. Three!  _Three years_ and all you can say to me is that you _like me a whole lot_?”

Bucky, wine glass halfway to his mouth again, freezes, mouth caught open. Around them, multiple waiters freeze, despite their training to ignore the conversations of their patrons.

“I--” Bucky starts and swallows. “This seems like a trick question.”

“A trick question,” Dottie says, sounding out the words like they are unbelievable and incomprehensible to her. Her green eyes bug out a little. She looks, honestly, like she’s about to have an aneurysm. A very elegant one, mind. Her hair is still picture perfect. “ _Three years_ , James, I have been waiting for you to tell me you love me for _three whole years_.”

Bucky feels something cold wash over him, a dread he can’t really express.

“I didn’t--” he starts, fumbling his words. “That is, I do--”

“No you don’t,” Dottie snaps. “Oh stop pretending that picture is anything other than real. If you are worried I care that you _kissed a man behind my back_ , then don’t bother.”

Bucky pales, waves his hand at her to shush her.

“Dot, please--”

“I am too good for you, James, I mean honestly. Who goes by the name _Bucky_?” Dottie looks sincerely disgusted.

“Hey!” Bucky’s actually offended at that.

“I am too good for you and it should have been a sign, years ago, when you could tell your stupid cat you loved _him_ every single day, but you could never say anything more than _I like you a whole lot_  to me or any other human.” By this time, despite herself, Dottie’s voice is the loudest by far in the nearby vicinity.

“Hey!” Bucky protests again. “Leave Tom outta this, he hasn’t done anything wrong!”

“Oh for heaven’s--” Dottie curses and, for a moment, Bucky thinks she’s going to do it, her eyes are gonna pop out of her lovely, beautiful, exquisite head. Then, she closes them and takes one, two, three long breaths and opens her eyes again. When she does, she’s calmer. She drinks her wine as well.

“Listen, Dot,” Bucky says, taking her silence as an invitation to try and make things right. “You’re right. I’ve been really shit about that, I’m sorry, you deserve better. I’m gonna do better. I’m gonna treat you right--”

“No you won’t,” Dottie says, still calm. “You will promise and you won’t change a thing. But that’s just fine, because what I came to tell you today, James, is that I think our time is at an end.”

Bucky, despite himself, despite how irritated he’s been by her all night, despite the fact that _she just almost outed him to the public_ , feels his stomach drop at this.

“What?”

“I have met someone else,” Dottie says. “And I am afraid he is a much better match for me. I am very sorry.”

Bucky stares at her, dumbfounded, at an actual loss for words.

“It is a good thing you never insisted on us moving in together, because that makes things easier. Do box up the few things I have left behind and forward it to this address, won’t you?” Dottie pushes forward a slip of paper with a new address on it, an L.A. address.

“Are you serious?” Bucky asks, somehow stringing the words together. He stares at the address and then up at her. “Who? Who is he?”

“Oh James,” Dottie says. She rustles as she gets up from the table, evidently done with her meal. “Don’t be like that. You’re a better person than that. At least, when you choose to be.”

Dottie carefully straightens her dress and her hair, puts the cloth napkin carefully back on the table. She crosses to Bucky’s side, bends down, and gives him a kiss on the cheek, leaving a perfect red imprint behind.

“Thank you for a lovely three years, my love. I did so like you _a whole lot_ ,” she says, with a serene smile. “I do hope we can stay friends.”

Her tone makes it very, very clear that she does not hope this.

And then, to add insult to injury, she leaves, leaving the check behind for him to take care of.

  
Everyone at that goddamned restaurant had a smart phone, obviously. It was really by some divine intervention and miracle that somehow, everyone had missed the moment in the dumping where Dottie had unintentionally, or intentionally, who knows, outed Bucky. Unfortunately, everyone had not missed the rest of the dumping. Every sordid detail was posted to the gossip rags and Twitter immediately, and, the very next day, to _Us Weekly_ , _People_ , and all the rest of the terrible celebrity magazines Bucky sometimes hated.  

“Oh good,” Natasha says, looking at the new _Us Weekly_. “Yes, James, this is exactly what I meant when I told you to treat your girlfriend nice and take her out to dinner.”

“Can you stop. Screaming at me?” Bucky, sprawled on the couch in his large, penthouse apartment in Greenwich Village, has an arm over his eyes, trying desperately not to die under the crushing weight of his hangover.

“I also didn’t tell you to drink your way through half the bars in Manhattan,” Natasha says in a very unkind tone. And by says, Bucky means _shouts_ because every decibel she speaks somehow shatters his eardrums.

“Got dumped,” Bucky grumbles. “What else’m I s’posed to do?”

“Eat a pint of ice cream, on that couch, with a single bottle of wine. Also, call your best friend so she can talk you out of terrible decisions such as, for example, drinking your way through half the bars in Manhattan.”

“Drinking easier,” Bucky mumbles. “Drinking yells less.”

“You should be so lucky that all I do is yell,” Natasha says. And then, with a sigh, she nudges Bucky’s leg with her knee. “Move over, you absolute lump.”

Bucky groans and kind of moves his legs so she can sit in front of them.

“James, look at me,” Natasha says, this time not unkindly.

After a moment, Bucky complies. He must look as bad as he feels because Natasha actually sighs.

“Oh, boy.” She rests a hand on his knee. “Are you okay?”

“On a scale of one to death, I’m afraid death will never come for me,” Bucky sighs and closes his eyes again.

“Okay, drama is not a good look on an actor,” Natasha says. “For obvious reasons.”

“How bad is it?” Bucky asks when he thinks he can stomach an answer.

“Well,” Natasha hedges and that makes Bucky groan and grab the nearest pillow to suffocate himself under. “You didn’t out yourself. So that’s good. And you didn’t indecently expose yourself or get caught having sex in public.”

“That’s where we’re setting the bar?” Bucky mutters, a sense of melancholy swiftly descending upon him. “Public indecency and sex?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t come perilously close to both,” Natasha says and, for a moment, Bucky can feel her long nails dig into his thigh. “However.”

Bucky groans louder, wishes for the swift release of an assured death.

“There were a few ill-advised karaoke sessions, a brawl, and some public urination.” Natasha _almost_ sounds amused, the absolute bastard. “I was advised that there was almost a public dick pic on your Instagram, but Pietro, somehow, found you and talked you out of that one.”

“Ugh,” Bucky makes a sound. All of it is too embarrassingly pathetic to actually mortify him. “Maximoff?”

“Wanda was the one who called me,” she says, still sounding amused. “He told her because he was worried. When you have that Maximoff kid worrying about you, I think you’re hovering a little too close to rock bottom for comfort.”

“What about--” Bucky peeks out from under his pillow, swallowing. He feels the dread creep over him, even as he gives Natasha a pleading look.

“She’s leaking the news from her camp,” Natasha says, thankfully reading his mind in only the way Natasha knows how. Her arms are crossed at her chest now, her fingernails tapping against some bangles she’s wearing today. “TMZ broke the news last night and your massively obvious spiral didn’t help. While you were peeing outside Katz’s Delicatessen, your love life was being mourned on almost every social media platform.”

“Did she post anything?” And honestly, Bucky hates that he has to ask. It’s just the sort of millennial-era question that makes him cringe when he tries to post a picture of Tom on his snapchat and accidentally ends up livestreaming a video of him cursing out Alton Brown while sweating over an episode of _Cutthroat Kitchen_ . But, well, they are living in the height of the millennial-era, so he _has_ to ask.

“There was a cryptic tweet and a cryptic Instagram post,” Natasha says, distractedly. She’s pulled out her phone and is scrolling through her email. “She’s feeding the sharks morsels until she can give her interview about how you’re a damaged puppy who worships Satan or something.”

“Even Satan doesn’t want my worship right now,” Bucky mutters and gets hit upside his head for his effort.

“Stop being dramatic,” Natasha says. “And there was the video.”

Bucky pales.

“What video?”

“Well, videos, I should say,” Natasha says. “And pictures. Everyone at _Daniel_ had a camera and apparently more than one person had the complete lack of decency to record most of that...awkward dinner. Most of the Internet’s seen it by now, I think.”

Bucky truly wishes a hole would open up under Manhattan, swallow them all, including himself.

“We have to get in front of this,” Natasha ignores Bucky’s look of horror. “The media is almost always more sympathetic toward the woman in these situations because men are almost far more likely to be the cheating, heartbreaking bastard.”

“Hey!’

“Statistics, James,” Natasha says, unmoved. “And, well, there was that kiss so they’re not completely off the mark.”

“It was nothing,” Bucky mutters. “I wasn’t cheating on her. We got drunk and were taking on dares.”

“God, men are stupid,” Natasha mutters, swiping through her emails. “Well that’s not how the media is going to see it, so we have to start crafting your message. You weren’t cheating, you were unhappy. She was too rigid, she was too formal, you felt suffocated in your relationship. You loved her, you’re a heartbroken mess, but you’re keeping it together. Maybe I can get someone to make a statement to the press about how you’re hurt, but holding strong. Which friends haven’t you alienated in the last year?”

“First of all, everyone loves me,” Bucky says. Then, sighing, he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back again.

This is the part of being a celebrity he hates. He’s good enough at schmoozing, at making people fall for his swoopy hair and his easy smile, a charisma and charm he’s wielded to spectacular results since he was a child; but the politicking, the smearing, the weigh pros and cons and boiling down a three year relationship that, yeah, ended in a shitty way, with a person who he had genuinely liked and cared for, into sound bites and a fucked up game of chess or checkers or whatever the fuck Natasha was thinking--well all of that is terrible. All of that genuinely, truly makes Bucky feel like crawling under a rock. Bucky knows he’s not the world’s greatest boyfriend or person, but he does have a conscience and he feels sick thinking about going around undermining Dottie’s reputation when she had never been anything but lovely to him.

“I don’t want to do that,” he finally says.

The silence from Natasha is almost, terrifyingly, deafening.

“James,” she starts and Bucky shakes his head.

“No, Nat. I know you’re doing this as your job and you’re damned good at it and I also know you’re doing it out of the goodness of your heart, as my best friend, but I just--” he sighs again, puffs out a breath to move an unruly floppy bang out of his hair. “That’s not how I want to end three years of my life. She’s a good person. I want people to still think that.”

After a moment, Natasha relents.

“Okay. But you’re not going to be able to escape this,” she says. Again, it’s not unkind. “You’re going to be all over the tabloids, your life and relationship dissected until something else comes around to distract the sharks. And even then, time is no guarantee. Look at Jennifer Aniston.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, somewhat sadly. “She’s really nice.”

“Yes, I know,” Natasha says soothingly. “Are you ready for that reality? You were part of Hollywood’s golden darling couple. If Dottie tells them the truth, it won’t be just weeks, it’ll be months. You’ll be asked about what happened, why you couldn’t tell her you loved her, about Pietro--all of it, until you want to tear your hair out.”

Bucky already wants to tear his hair out and he hasn’t even gotten off his couch long enough to try and access the current celebrity gossip cycle.

“No,” he says, after a long moment. For the first time, he doesn’t sound dramatic, he just sounds tired. Sad, lonely, and tired. “I’m not.”

This time, Natasha’s pause is--well, either calculated or truly at a loss, Bucky’s not exactly sure. Either way, it makes him feel worse than he already does.

He sinks further into the couch, hoping the cushions will swallow him whole.

“You’ll figure something out,” Natasha finally says and it isn’t Publicist Natasha Romanoff or even Stern Best Friend Natasha, but the Natasha who’s known him since high school, who saw him rehearsing for an audition one day in the empty gymnasium and walked up to him and told him he was good, he was really fucking good, and that he should keep the British accent, it was good and made all the difference.

She actually runs her hand through his hair and continues doing so in a soothing and familiar gesture, one that she hasn’t indulged him in in years. That makes it seem real to him, everything--Dottie leaving, getting trashed, getting kicked out of the bar, almost kissing Pietro getting, almost wrecking his car, how he’s been avoiding Maria’s calls, how listless and disconnected he feels on set, how he hasn’t been able to say I love you to anyone, not since--well, anyway, all of it. They weigh heavily on his chest, makes it hard for him to swallow past how unhappy he is.

  
“I’m a mess,” Bucky says, quietly, finally.

“I know,” Natasha replies after a moment, her hand still in his hair. She strokes his hair and they sit in silence for a few minutes, before she shifts. “But you’re not the only one.”


	2. The Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now come on, you’re going to make us late and Freya is going to be terribly cross. You know how she gets when she’s terribly cross. We won’t be able to order anything other than vegan food or listen to anyone other than Taylor Swift for the next month.”
> 
> “A more dire fate never befell man,” Loki says drily.
> 
> “You jest,” Baldur says with a slight shudder, “But you know her favorite album isn’t even 1989.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Second Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, too (get it) many lawyer jokes, and a Loki in a pear tree. (Kind of) (Not really) (No pear trees were involved in the writing of this chapter)
> 
> (Lawyers & law students, fear not, I am one of your people, so all jokes are commissioned by our field. Also, I took some liberties.) 
> 
> (Also, important note: Baldur in my canon is Charlie Hunnam, so enjoy imagining that.)

When Loki wakes up, the first thing he notices is that he’s in someone else’s bed. He groans a little, stretching the ticks out of his muscles, but when he turns his head, there’s no one there. He pushes himself up, sheets pooling around his bare hips. He winces as cool air hits his skin, little bumps of gooseflesh raising along the back of arms. He’s sore overall, but in a pleasant way, in some places more than others. It’s inevitable that his fair skin is bruised where Baldur’s hands had gripped him harder, manhandling his body for sport, before, during, and for a while after. Loki had always enjoyed that, the look of possessiveness that came into Baldur’s eyes when they fucked. More often than not, Baldur was rough, almost merciless, but not in any malicious sort of way. Truth be told, he liked the friction of it rough, he enjoyed being treated as though Baldur owned him, as though he belonged to him alone.

There’s a particularly sore spot just above his collarbone which, with a smile, he remembers to be the remainder of a rather enthusiastic and vigorous use of teeth. He presses the pad of his thumb to it and even the pressure of pain is pleasing to him. He likes being marked too, which Baldur knows. It’s getting cold enough now to wear scarves again, so it will be easy enough to hide, a secret in plain public.

“If the reason for your abandonment is anything less than bringing me food, I will be very cross indeed,” Loki says, calling out to the other room.

He expects an answer, the rustling of noise, the clink of glassware, anything really. What he receives, instead, is the complete silence of an empty apartment.

Loki frowns and gets up from bed, finds where they had flung his boxers the night before, and slips into them. Baldur’s penthouse apartment in Chelsea proper is clean and large and very, very cold. Loki steals Baldur’s plush robe and shrugs into it before plodding across cold tile to the other room. He looks around, perhaps expecting to find Baldur reading on the couch or looking over deposition testimony in his office, but Loki finds neither.

He doesn’t find keys or a note. He doesn’t find Baldur at all.

  
Loki is leading a team on an international merger case between two global conglomerates that are successful and wealthy enough to threaten monopoly laws across at least half a dozen different international borders. The merger is difficult and time consuming and Loki has put a solid sixteen months into the process, ignoring any semblance of life and, on more occasions than not, spending more nights sleeping in his office than actually making it home to his shared cottage. It doesn’t help, he supposes, that he commutes two hours from Liverpool into London, where his Magic Circle firm is seated, and then two hours back from London to Liverpool, on good travel days anyway, each week. There is something comforting about the busy anonymity of a city like London, but he refuses to give up the small and fiery city that he had grown up in, so he splits the difference and hardly has time to spend in either.

Now, however, the merger has temporarily been halted by an American judge in a District Court in the United States, after three different parties had filed lawsuits against the companies, and by an English court which had issued an interim prohibitory injunction. The firm’s American arm is dealing with the American litigation, but the British arm, including Loki’s team, has to balance the English court’s decision with some extraneous calls for arbitration that the partners could not pay Loki enough to deal with. And, to be clear, the firm pays Loki a great, great deal. And still.

Most days he’s in through the door by 8 in the morning and out of the office by 11 pm if he’s lucky. He hasn’t felt actual sunlight on his skin in weeks, as though his naturally pale complexion isn’t haunting enough, and for two weeks in a row now he hasn’t even made it back to Liverpool. On the one hand he misses his bed and his roommate’s dog; on the other, Baldur’s bed is also quite comfortable and what he lacks in Australian Shepherd, he makes up for in biceps and abs.

It’s not something he can bring up when they pass one another in the hallway, Loki feeling the electric tension between them and Baldur resolutely not looking at him, should someone else find out, but it is something that makes the third day of butter naan and korma taste a little better.

It’s another night like the rest of the week, a Thursday, three weeks before Christmas, and the emergency motions and filings are so steadily growing that he doubts he’ll make it home this weekend either. He’ll send his roommate flowers and a picture of himself to make sure he remembers him when he eventually, one day, in a hundred years, is allowed to go back.

He has a stack of filings to his right, three contract provisions to read on his left, six urgent emails he hasn’t responded to yet, a half-drafted response to the latest complaint, and a Spotify playlist that is, for some reason, stuck on Daddy Yankee. Okay, actually, that he doesn’t mind so much. Daddy Yankee is great.

Loki’s slept a collective six hours in three days, hasn’t eaten since lunch, and honestly, he’s going a bit cross-eyed at legalese his brain can’t even process anymore. He can’t remember the last time he saw someone who wasn’t a client, a partner at the firm, or the delivery driver from Brick Lane Curry House. He might be developing an ulcer. He suddenly feels so tired and overwhelmed and sick that he has to lay his head down on his desk.

The moment he does so, he falls asleep.

  
He wakes up, some time later, to large, strong fingers massaging the back of his neck. Despite himself, he feels a part of himself twitch with interest, betraying all sense of professionalism. He lifts his head, bleary and groggy and Baldur is standing over him, all 200 pounds of muscle, long, light blond hair, half pulled back and half moving into his scruffy face, blue eyes kind and appreciative for once. Even half-asleep, Loki thinks he looks like some kind of disgusting Norse God and his stomach tightens carefully and he feels the need to smile, embarrassingly, and god, he hates himself for it, for all of it.

“What time is it?” he asks instead, his voice raspy with sleep.

“Oh, you sound good that way, babe,” Baldur says and his hand kneads a little harder into Loki’s neck before slipping under the collar of his extremely expensive Armani shirt. Loki shivers.

“You mean half dead with exhaustion?” Loki says and squints at the time on his computer. 11 pm. Again.

“I mean raspy and sexy,” Baldur smiles again, leaning closer. The bristles of his beard scratch the shell of Loki’s ear and Loki almost lets out an undignified sound. “What d’you say?”

“I just woke up, Baldur,” Loki says, with what seems an inhuman amount of effort. “I haven’t even looked through the contracts yet.”

“The contracts aren’t going anywhere,” Baldur says and this time he lets his teeth graze that same ear shell, nibble at the bottom lobe. Loki shivers again, almost violently this time.

“We’re at the office,” Loki mutters. “You said never--”

“There’s no one else here,” Baldur murmurs. “We’ll lock the door.”

The thought is obscenely tempting. Loki is half-hard already.

“You left,” Loki murmurs back. “Last time. I woke up and you were gone. You didn’t even text.”

“Oh that?” Baldur laughs lightly, breath hot on Loki’s neck. Jesus fuck. “I had to come in to work. You’ve been spending so much time with me, didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Well I--” Loki began, almost heatedly, but any thoughts of actually saying _I did_ disappears when Baldur’s other hand slips down onto Loki’s crotch. “Fuck, Baldur.”

“Seems like you’ve forgiven me anyway,” Baldur grins.

Loki should say no. He should stand up for himself, demand that Baldur at least _apologize_ for leaving him last weekend. He had come in to work the next day and Baldur had gone back to ignoring him, not even meeting his eyes in the hallway, answering any question with a calm and professional tone, nothing more, nothing less. Loki had spent the better part of half the week thinking about what he could have done wrong. It went against every grain of fiber in his body, to be reduced to this, but the way he felt around Baldur wasn’t easily replicated. Even Loki, poor, orphan Loki, from the broken home and the years in shitty foster homes, Loki with the clinical and seasonal depression and trust issues and possible bipolar disorder, even he could feel safe and loved and, importantly, _wanted_ when someone like Baldur took him into his arms. And Baldur was kind and he was hot and he was funny and he was smart as fuck and excellent at what he did--he was the firm’s best litigator by miles--and he had rock hard abs and a smile that made Loki weak in the knees. Everyone wanted Baldur, but Loki was sleeping with him. That appealed to Loki on some base level.

So how, after all of that, could Loki say no when Baldur was slowly and meaningfully pressing his palm to a very sensitive member of his body now? Loki can barely think and Baldur is relentless and, jesus fucking christ, Loki loves him, he is head over heels in fucking love with him.

He turns and Baldur’s grin is blinding, knowing he’s won.

  
They fuck, obviously, and at least a few times. Baldur is careful to lock the door, but they fuck against the door too, so at least Loki gets that.

  
At least when he goes back to working somewhere around 1 am, he’s a little happier, or at least more relaxed, for it, the afterglow and the memory of Baldur’s hands lingering on his back and on his neck carrying him through yet another sleepless, exhausting night. He presses the pad of his thumb to the the still healing bruise on his neck and, again, embarrassingly, disgustingly, hating himself even as he does it, smiles.

  
Loki met Baldur the first week of orientation, which also happened to be his first week back in England after five years away. He had moved to the United States after finishing his university degree in Chemistry and Mathematics at Oxford. He had worked for a pharmaceutical company for two years before deciding he hated it, took the LSAT on a whim, achieved a near perfect score, applied to Harvard, got in to Harvard, summered at a big law firm with a London office, was offered a position at the big law firm upon graduation, graduated from Harvard, took and passed the New York State bar, just in case, transferred from the Washington D.C. office to the London office, and started as an associate in the Magic Circle firm’s international transactional department.

On a CV or in a cover letter, that all looked as impressive as it actually was, but in person, Loki had to constantly swallow through insecurities left by a childhood raised in England’s failing foster care system. He was rather good at it, at speaking smoothly and bluffing pure confidence, so it should not have surprised him as much as it did when, at a welcome lunch for all of the new associates, the tall, clearly well-built, extremely attractive--like, disgustingly, mind-numbingly hot--junior associate had smiled at Loki and asked if the seat across from him was taken.

Loki had felt his heart stop in throat for half a beat before he had recovered, given the other man a smooth smile, and offered him the opportunity to make it worth his while. Baldur had made it worth his while. They ended up talking only to each other the entire lunch, got dinner together, and it was only because Loki was still becoming readjusted to London and did not exactly know where Baldur stood on the whole sexuality thing that they did not fuck immediately. They had built up to it, which, later, Loki would find a little ironic.  
  
Loki and Baldur kept running into each other in the office, in the hallways, in the kitchen, in the common area, even at the gym. When Loki had questions about particular assignments, Baldur always had an answer for him. As Loki proved himself a remarkable transactional attorney, more complex cases were handed to him and as more cases were handed to him, the later he stayed in the office. He was rarely alone.

Baldur learned that Loki actually lived in Liverpool and was startlingly brilliant at math and Loki learned that Baldur had played rugby in school and through university and was one of those nerds who had contributed theories to _Lost_ forums back when it was still airing. Loki learned that Baldur was funny, that Baldur was helpful, that Baldur was wickedly smart. One day, seemingly by accident, he also learned that Baldur was bisexual.

  
Baldur had been laying on the couch in Loki’s office, suit jacket off, collar unbuttoned, tie loosened. Loki, who had been reading through a contract, took a break and came to sit next to him on the couch.

“That must have been very difficult for whoever you were dating,” Loki said, wryly, in response to a story Baldur had been telling about going to the Hyde Park Winter Wonderland with his date and being asked out on three dates, with three complete strangers, by the time they had walked to the ice skating area.

“He wasn’t happy, no,” Baldur laughed.

Loki’s heart had skipped at that. He took the moment to pause, meaningfully, eyes trained on his shiny, expensive shoes ahead of him.

“He?” Loki asked, wetting his lips.

Beside him, Baldur stilled. Then, almost slowly, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “My boyfriend at the time.”

“At the time,” Loki echoed. He tried not to make it completely obvious that he was digging, which, obviously, he was.

“Not anymore,” Baldur said.

“Ah,” Loki said.

A few seconds later, Baldur’s hand was on Loki’s thigh. Loki, heart in his throat, swallowed and turned toward his friend and mentor.

Baldur had quite an unfamiliar look in his eyes; hard, hungry. His fingers tightened.

When their mouths met, it was hot and electric. Baldur’s large, firm hand was immediately in Loki’s hair, tugging on it, scraping his nails against scalp, and Loki had keened, had felt the pooling of feeling in his stomach even then.

  
In retrospect, he hadn’t stood a single fucking chance.

  
“Don’t tell anyone, please,” Baldur had begged, later, when he was buttoning up his shirt. Loki had startled at that, feeling uneasy, but Baldur had seen the look on his face and kissed him thoroughly, silly, again. “It’s not that. It’s not you. But we work together. People would talk. And in our profession, reputation is everything. You know that.”

Loki did know that, which was why Baldur’s plea for silence had made and still made perfect sense, no matter how much it burned at Loki to keep him a secret.

It was okay, he told himself, consoling himself, three years later. Baldur might still be a secret, but he was Loki’s secret. He might flirt with all of the women in the office, but it was harmless, because, in the end, it was always Loki he came back to.

  
The firm’s holiday party was two and a half weeks before Christmas. They had rented out the Ritz Restaurant, where an open bar and a four course meal awaited each of the firm’s extremely well-paid and deeply overworked attorneys and staff. True to form, an hour before the actual event, half of the attorneys were still working, putting in last minute details to briefs or finishing up conference and client calls. Loki was no different, although he, like his colleagues, was dressed to the nines in his very best suit, one in deep green that brought out his eyes, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

He’s finishing a client call when Baldur surprises him by knocking on his door. He peeks his stupidly beautiful blond head in through the door.

“Yes, certainly, tell Mr. Strange that we will have the documents to him soon,” he says and rolls his eyes at Baldur, who just smiles at him. He steps into the office, dressed in a charcoal grey suit, with a sky blue tie, and Loki thinks he could melt to the ground at the sight of him alone. “Yes, of course. Thanks to you too. Happy Holidays.”

“The Strange case?” Baldur asks and Loki groans, swiping a hand over his face.

“It will never end,” he says. “It will be the death of me.”

“You are so dramatic, babe,” Baldur says and Loki, despite himself, feels the word swoop through him. Baldur rarely uses sweet names on him, but when he does, Loki falls prey far too easily to his charm.

“It will be. The death of me,” Loki repeats and Baldur laughs. He looks at Loki and it’s almost fond.

“Wish I could kiss you,” he says.

“You could,” Loki says. “We could close the door and--”

“This suit cost me four figures,” Baldur says. “As much as I’d like you to tear the buttons off--”

“Tsk,” Loki says. He shuts down his computer and gets up. “Your loss.”

Baldur laughs again.

“I thought we could join Freya and take a car over to the Ritz.”

“Freya hates me,” Loki complains, but he’s reaching for his peacoat all the same.

“Who could possibly hate you?” Baldur grins, almost wolfishly, and if Loki feels his ass squeezed, he doesn’t complain.

“You have the tongue of a charmer,” Loki says.

“I’m not the one they call Silvertongue,” Baldur grins.

“Although it is a reputation more suited to you, a litigator,” Loki says drily.

“Touche,” Baldur laughs. “Come on, you’re taking too long.”

“Oh, hold on,” Loki gripes. He’s put his coat on when he remembers. “Baldur.”

“Yeah?” Baldur, who’s started to look a bit impatient, gives Loki a look.

“I have something for you.” Loki takes steps back to his desk and opens the top drawer. He pulls out a small rectangle, wrapped carefully in paper.

“Loki, what--” Baldur looks surprised, but Loki just shakes his head.

“Happy Holiday,” he says and, cheeks slightly tinged pink, he hands the present to Baldur.

Baldur looks a little startled, but he unwraps the package to--

“Holy shit,” he swears. In his hand is the signed autobiography of his favorite rugby player, Willie John McBride. Inside, as Loki knows, is a message, just for Baldur, written and signed by Willie himself. “Loki are you--serious?”

“I know you like rugby,” Loki says, embarrassed and pleased. “Dork.”

Baldur actually looks happy. He laughs again, and presses a kiss to Loki’s forehead.

“I--have something for you too,” he says. “It’s, er, I don’t have it on me, but, it’s just at home. I didn’t expect this, babe, you’re the absolute best.”

He sounds very slightly weird, but Loki ignores it.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he murmurs, even as his chest twists with what he dares name as happiness.

“Of course I did,” Baldur says smoothly. “I had to get something for my best guy.”

It’s almost too much for Loki and he’s on the verge of grabbing Baldur’s face and kissing him, when Baldur clears his throat.

“Now come on, you’re going to make us late and Freya is going to be terribly cross. You know how she gets when she’s terribly cross. We won’t be able to order anything other than vegan food or listen to anyone other than Taylor Swift for the next month.”

“A more dire fate never befell man,” Loki says drily.

“You jest,” Baldur says with a slight shudder, “But you know her favorite album isn’t even 1989.”

  
Freya makes them listen to Taylor Swift anyway and Baldur gripes about it good-naturedly the entire way there. Freya sits between them and Baldur spends the entire ride talking only to her. It doesn’t overtly bother Loki, except for when he offers a story and a joke that’s met with blank stares and a hasty change to another topic. Loki returns his attention to his phone and tries not to be sullen as he obliterates yet another level of Candy Crush.

The Ritz is a stunning vision for the holidays. Decorated in red and gold, with spectacular, almost glittering wreaths and garlands wrapped about sweeping marble pillars and ornate handrails, vivid poinsettias positioned around the halls, and an enormous Christmas tree covered in lights, bows, and large, dangling ornaments, the Ritz exudes a holiday spirit glamorous enough to suit its extremely well-endowed and upscale patrons without becoming outright gaudy. Loki allows a young man to take his coat and grabs the first flute of champagne that a waiter offers. When he turns around, Baldur and Freya have disappeared.

It’s really no matter, because while Loki may not be beloved, he’s like enough. He’s a bit of a tough leader, and a known wordsmith that no one can really match, but his project area is wildly successful and his cases are always dealt with efficiently, professionally, and with excellent work product. He mostly hates everyone he works with, but they would never know that and, based on his clients’ rave reviews, the clients and bosses would never know it either. He drinks to the bottom of the flute while talking with another partner and allows someone to hand him a glass of wine in replacement. There are many hors d'oeuvres to spare and his appetite is whet and his limbs vaguely loosened by the time someone puts a Santa hat on him and, laughing, leads him to the dinner area.

Loki finds himself sitting next to one of the partners and his wife and he is on his best behavior, smiling at the right moment, laughing at the right moment, telling cutting stories that display his wit and cunning. Everyone around him is charmed. He eats his way through all four courses and only looks for where Baldur is sitting once a course or so. He can’t find him, which puzzles him, but he supposes it’s no real matter. Maybe after dinner, he can find Baldur, convince him to walk to the balcony and look at the city under the night sky together. It's cold and they’re all well into their wine and champagne and it smells like Christmas and looks like Christmas and almost is Christmas, so who could blame two colleagues for taking some time to chat warmly together?

“Mr. Laufeyson,” the partner, Everett Ross, is still talking to him and Loki has to shake himself out of his alcohol-induced reverie. “Would you care to join us?”

“Join you?” Loki blanks just a little.

“For the announcements,” the man gestures toward the other room, where most of the attorneys are slowly making their way. “Unless you have other plans. A handsome young man like yourself, I’m sure you have a date around here somewhere.”

Loki gives him a gracious smile.

“Not a date, no,” Loki says, although his tone and lack of real response makes Mr. Ross raises his eyebrow, a mischievous and curious twinkle there.

“Oh, Everett, stop teasing him,” his wife laughs nearby, apologetically.

“Not at all,” Loki says. “I would love to accompany you. Rumor has it that someone has given Dugan more than his fair share of alcohol this evening and put into his head that a rousing round of karaoke is just what the party needs.”

It was Loki, of course. He was the one who did both of these things.

“Karaoke!” Mrs. Ross exclaims. “In the middle of the Ritz!”

“Led by Dugan,” Mr. Ross muses.

Mr. Ross looks slightly amused and Mrs. Ross looks thoroughly delighted and being in with such a high-ranking partner is a power move that can only help the trajectory of Loki’s career, so he thinks of only that as he is handed another glass of wine before being ushered to the next room.

The adjoining room has various high tables around which those chatting can gather, deliberately placed so that they’re encircling a slightly raised middle area. There’s a beautiful, expensive, enormous crystal chandelier glittering just about this stage and a wall of mirrors framed in gold. The carpet is a deep red, there are old, gold-gilded paintings hung about the room, and little string lights twinkling at every corner. In the corner, there is another massive, towering Christmas tree, decorated from top to bottom in silver and gold tinsel, precious ornaments, and little crystals that twinkle as the light from the chandelier hits each in turn. The room looks expensive and smells expensive and makes it all feel like they’re in the middle of an exquisitely high class Christmas affair, which, to be fair, they most certainly are.

Loki is warm and a bit buzzed and when Tyr takes the stage to do his thank yous and offer his congratulations for another successful year in the London office, he forgets himself and looks around for the one person he actually gives a damn about in this place. He finds him in the corner, finally, happily talking to some woman with long, blonde waves, who is wearing a well-fitting black, velvet dress, and a large rock on her finger, and who Loki can only see from the back. She’s thin and tall and likely objectively beautiful, although Loki’s never seen her before in his life. He figures she must be the vapid wife of someone here.

Baldur has a drink in his hand, his cheeks flushed from the warmth and alcohol, and he’s leaning in, laughing at something the woman’s saying. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his collar and tie slightly loosened, his long, platinum blond hair falling into his face. He looks relaxed and happy and absurdly, incomprehensibly beautiful. Loki can feel his stomach swoop heavily just thinking about him, and it’s more than simple, unadulterated attraction, more than just what lies under all of those unnecessary layers of clothes, it’s _him_ , it’s Baldur himself and how he makes him feel, even when he doesn’t mean to. Loki has never given much thought to sentiment, has never really had the safety or comfort to do so, but he knows he’s being sentimental, because it’s obvious, even to him, that he’s head over heels in love.

He’ll tell him tonight, he thinks. No matter their professional reputation, no matter what everyone else thinks--to hell with everyone else. Loki knows who he wants and he doesn’t particularly care about the ramifications.

He drains the rest of his glass and starts to make his way through the crowd, when Tyr stops reciting his normal holiday speech.

“All right, that’s quite enough of that,” the boring old man laughs, made, evidently, slightly less stuffy by what must be his fourth or fifth glass. If there is one thing holiday parties are good for, it’s to get everyone well and truly drunk and for two seconds stop talking about mergers and acquisitions and contract theory. God, attorneys are the most boring group of humans Loki’s ever met, and he was in pharmaceuticals for two years.

“Because it is the holidays and because we’ve all had more than our fair share of the Ritz’s generous bar--” everyone laughs here, louder than they usually would because of, well, the aforementioned fair share of the Ritz’s generous bar, “--and because I have heard more than one rumor that Dum Dum Dugan is planning a coup to sing karaoke in this fine establishment--”

“Hear, hear!” Dugan says from the crowd and the table of people surrounding him cheer good naturedly.

“--and we _do not want that_ \--”

“Boo!” Only Dum Dum Dugan could get away with borderline rowdiness in a fine British establishment in a room full of attorneys and partners and their spouses with no repercussion.

“--I think it is time for a change of pace,” Tyr says, all in good spirit. “First, as you may have heard, we have had a magnificent quarter. You have all put in more hours than is likely strictly legal and not one of you has reported the firm to the human rights commission. Accounting and I thank you for that.”

Another round of appreciative laughter. Loki rolls his eyes.

“You have earned your very healthy bonuses, which you will find deposited to your bank accounts accordingly. Happy Holidays!”

The crowd cheers again and Loki, thanking his stars that that is over, begins to make his way over to Baldur once more.

“One more thing before you resume drinking, you lushes!” Tyr says and Loki huffs in irritation. “Before I forget, we have more good news than even that! The holidays are a time to celebrate family, success, and love. Sometimes, we have occasion to celebrate all three at once. So please, join me in congratulating our very own Baldur Borsson and Nanna Nepsdóttir on their engagement _and_ growing family!”

The entire room erupts in loud, congratulatory clamor.

“To Baldur and Nanna!” Tyr raises his glass.

“Baldur and Nanna!” the room chants back.

It takes Loki a moment to really process what’s been said. Frozen, he stares at Tyr, trying to understand the poor joke. Tyr, however, is looking at Baldur and Nanna. The entire room is looking at Baldur and Nanna.

Loki, somehow, like a feelingless ghost, manages to look at Baldur and Nanna.

Baldur blushes, ducks his head, and raises a glass. The blonde next to him wraps an arm around his back and smiles graciously, also raising a glass. Loki looks at her, unseeingly, closer. Her glass is perfectly clear, obviously full of water. The velvet dress, which he had seen fit her so perfectly from the back, curves ever so slightly over her belly in the front.

What sound and feeling his shock had been blocking out returns to him, whirling, fullforce. He feels the alcohol start to churn in his stomach, the noise of his colleagues pounding dully in his ears, the warmth of the crowded room stifling him. He takes in a big, shaking breath and doesn’t realize he’s shattered the glass in his hand until Everett Ross, of all people, looks at him with concern.

“Mr. Laufeyson, are you quite all right?” he asks. “You’re as white as a sheet. Oh you’ve gotten wine on your suit.”

Loki manages, somehow, to turn away from him, blindly.

He manages, somehow, to make it out onto the balcony.

He manages, somehow, to not splatter on anyone or anything, when he bends over, in the corner, and empties his stomach into a beautiful, potted poinsettia.


	3. The Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky isn’t depressed, per se. It’s only that he feels numb, can’t bring himself to eat, can’t bring himself to stop eating once he’s brought himself to eat, has only eaten, when he’s felt the urge to, the same order from the same Chinese take out place (hot and sour soup with extra wontons, two crab rangoons, a quart of shrimp lo mein, a quart of beef and broccoli, a quart of General Tso’s chicken, and a pint of kung pao chicken, with a diet coke), hasn’t really bathed or shaved, definitely hasn’t checked his social media accounts or even his phone, has only turned on the television to watch reruns of Gilmore Girls and Criminal Minds, and he only feels marginally less suicidal when he’s sleeping, which, incidentally, is most of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Third Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, a Bucky eating a lot of Chinese. Thank you so much for continuing to read and comment! It warms my heart that Bucky and Loki's angst is giving you all life. :)

Bucky isn’t depressed, per se. It’s only that he feels numb, can’t bring himself to eat, can’t bring himself to stop eating once he’s brought himself to eat, has only eaten, when he’s felt the urge to, the same order from the same Chinese take out place (hot and sour soup with extra wontons, two crab rangoons, a quart of shrimp lo mein, a quart of beef and broccoli, a quart of General Tso’s chicken, and a pint of kung pao chicken, with a diet coke), hasn’t really bathed or shaved, definitely hasn’t checked his social media accounts or even his phone, has only turned on the television to watch reruns of Gilmore Girls and Criminal Minds, and he only feels marginally less suicidal when he’s sleeping, which, incidentally, is most of the day. Which some might call depression, but which Bucky likes to call self care because _the entire celebrity gossip news cycle is about him_. He doesn’t exactly know what they’re saying about him, but the one time he had made the mistake of checking his phone, he had briefly seen about twenty different sympathy text messages and three missed calls from Becca and after that, he had avoided his friends and family and TMZ like the plague.

The only person he can’t really avoid is Natasha and, through Natasha, Maria, although God knows he’s been trying to avoid both to the best of his abilities. Luckily, or unluckily for him, Natasha has other clients to worry about and about two days of the Bucky Barnes Is a Train Wreck party was all she could stand before those other clients all suddenly had emergencies that they needed her for, immediately.

Today, he manages to bathe and shave for the first time in days, a small bout of optimism and energy brought on entirely by the fact that when he had turned his television on, Freeform had been marathoning season 3 of Gilmore Girls, which, everyone knows, is the best season of Gilmore Girls. It doesn’t hurt that he accidentally stepped on the scale while reaching for an extra roll of toilet paper and found out that he actually hadn’t gained a pound in his Not Depressive spiral. It’s a wonder what small measures of vanity will do for Bucky Barnes in dire straits.

He’s considering calling the _Indian_ place today for delivery when he, on pure accident, clicks on a Twitter alert. It’s a mistake. That much is apparent even before the app finishes loading and he sees that he is _still_ trending on the platform, this time because someone had released a video from a round of drunken bar karaoke from the night he got dumped. He cringes so hard he nearly drops the phone from the effort. He closes out of Twitter as fast as humanly possible and then, because nothing can ever go right when they could absolutely go wrong, in the process, he accidentally presses the green button when Becca calls.

“ _James Buchanan Barnes!_ ” his sister’s voice comes shouting from his phone. “ _One week I have been trying to reach you! Mom and dad are worried sick!_ ”

Bucky pales because his sister has only used his full name three times in his entire life and each time had preceded a whole world of pain and humiliation for Bucky. All, arguably, warranted, but still. He was in no place to savor the sisterly tough love.

“Becks, I’m fine,” he murmurs, but Becca won’t let him get in a word edgewise.

She yells at him for a while and, if he’s honest, it becomes rather soothing white noise in the background after a time. The bottle of emergency vodka he’s opened certainly doesn’t hurt. He’s halfway through the bottle and slightly swimmy when Becca realizes he hasn’t been listening at all. This only serves to infuriate Becca Barnes more and a furious Becca Barnes is a terrifying thing.

“ _Get your shit together, Bucky! Before I come over there and make you!_ ” she nearly shrieks and then hangs up abruptly.

Bucky winces and turns his phone off, shakily.

She’s not wrong, is the thing. Becca Barnes is rarely ever wrong. The problem is that Bucky doesn’t have the energy to _get his shit together_. If he had reshoots, he would at least be forced to leave his apartment and get out of his head, but Tony hasn’t called him back and Wanda hasn’t told him when they start shooting again. In the meantime, he can’t leave, but staying with only his own thoughts is driving him nearly out of what’s left of his goddamned mind.

“I need to get away,” he mutters to his best friend, the bottle of vodka.

“Mrow!” Tom protests somewhere behind him.

“Buddddy,” Bucky says, slurring even the one word. “Forgot about you. You good?”

Tom gives him an offended look, swishes his tail in Bucky’s face, and hops off the couch to do better things.

“Great,” Bucky says to Vodka. “Even my cat hates me.”

He drains about a third of the remaining liquor and staggers up to his feet. He sways only a little bit, which is impressive, given he’s about 20% leftover General Tso’s chicken and 80% vodka at the moment.

“Gotta get away,” he says again. “Need a vacation.”

He logs onto his laptop for the first time in a week and, taking a swig from Vodka, types in NEED TO GET AWAY BECAUSE MY LIFE SUCKS into Google. After a direct link to the National Suicide Prevention Hotline, two links that suggest a therapist, one link that suggests converting to Buddhism, and an out-of-place link to the Bahamas tourism board website, Bucky finds something promising--a link to a vacation home swap website, HomeExchange.com.

“Gotta get someone good to look after you while I’m gone, right Tommy?” Bucky says to his cat, excitedly.

Tom, who has crawled back onto the chair of the arm, mrows loudly. It is not a mrow of assent.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters. “I know you hate that nickname.”

He has a very particular cat.

Bucky leans back onto his couch, touching the mouth of the bottle to his temple, thinking. He can’t go anywhere too far, in case Tony calls him back, but he can’t stay anywhere too close, in case someone recognizes him and, looking into his eyes, identifies a lack of will to continue living. So he makes the decision in the time-honored fashion of all depressed, drunken folk making questionable decisions at midnight--he closes his eyes and points his finger at the screen.

He opens his eyes and his index finger is jabbed at England.

“That’s actually not bad,” Bucky says, impressed with himself. “Good job, me.”

He clicks into England and starts looking through the map of potential areas--London might as well be New York, he’s not chancing that, Oxford is too close to London and he doesn’t need to be reminded that he’s not smart enough to make proper decisions for himself, Exeter sounds almost too British for him, and Manchester--well, once he had met a man from Manchester named Wayne on the set of a movie he had done and the man had talked so much about some soccer (sorry, “football”) club named Manchester United, even when it was made clear that Bucky could not have cared less about soccer, that even now Bucky shudders at the sight of the word. But Liverpool--Bucky leans closer to the screen.

“Hey Tom, isn’t that where the Beatles are from?” Bucky asks and Tom mrows in agreement. “I like the Beatles. They’re great. Revolution? Total jam. Coulda cast me in Across the Universe, but no, went with Jim Sturgess and look where he is now. Where is he, Tom? Not anywhere.”

Tom mrows.

“You’re right,” Bucky agrees. “He’s still hot.”

So, encouraged by his cat and his love for the Beatles, Bucky clicks on Liverpool.

There’s a listing for a home exchange just outside of Liverpool a charming, very English stone cottage with a garden, just a stone’s throw from the water. Two bedrooms, one bathroom, a fireplace, a kitchen, only a 15 minute drive into the city proper.

_The cottage is shared with a flatmate, although he will be away for the holiday season. We have an Australian Shepherd named Riley you will need to care for. He is rather shy and very sweet, will not bother you unless you wish for him to. I will leave you detailed instructions and enough supplies for his care. Minimum two week stay._

“Soundsss great!” Bucky grins at Tom before messaging @Loki.

 **Bucky:** Hey, I’m very very interested in renting your cottage for the next few weeks. I live in NYC, in a nice apartment in Chelsea. One bedroom, huge living room and kitchen, nice view of the city, access to a ton of really great restaurants. I recommend the Chinese. No roommates, just a grumpy cat named Tom who won’t bother you as long as you talk to him sometimes. He likes roast chicken. He’s weird, but cute.

Bucky waits with slightly bated breath. He tries to remind himself that it’s, what, 6 am in England? So probably this Loki is still asleep. He gets up, thinking to make himself a grilled cheese. He takes his laptop and sets it on his granite counter, rummages through his mostly empty fridge for cheese and butter. Surely even a human disaster like him has enough supplies for a drunken middle-of-the-night grilled cheese sandwich.

He’s just found a block of butter and a slightly expired, but not molded, hunk of sharp cheddar, with a triumphant cry, when he hears his laptop go _ding!_

“Oh shit,” Bucky looks at Tom excitedly. “Oh shit!”

He drops the butter and cheese onto the counter and scrabbles over to the laptop.

 **Loki:** I have never met a cat that I did not like. The dog is my roommate’s, I would much prefer a cat.

 **Loki:** I have not been to NYC during the holidays for many a year. Is two weeks acceptable to you?

Bucky pulls up his calendar. Two weeks from this Friday puts him at December 29. That’s just enough time to disappear without risking more shoots with the _Howling Commandos_.

 **Bucky:** One question, are there a lot of paparazzi where you live?

Bucky waits another few seconds, drumming his fingers excitedly on the counter.

 **Loki:** Liverpool hates hounding celebrities. It’s a point of pride. Just avoid anyone from The Sun.

 **Bucky:** Yes!

 **Bucky:** I mean great.

 **Bucky:** I mean perfect.

 **Bucky:** When can we switch?

Another minute of Bucky grinning absolutely wildly at Tom, who is now licking at the block of butter, deeply unconcerned, and another fated _ding!_

 **Loki:** How about tomorrow?

  
Bucky cleans his apartment for the first time in a week, turning on a Beatles playlist on Spotify and repeating Revolution and Can’t Buy Me Love three times each. He finds his passport, buys his plane ticket, takes out the trash, mops, sweeps, dusts, and even chances New York City in a baseball cap to run to the nearest Whole Foods to buy his guest a few American staples, like a loaf of ciabatta, a carton of almond milk, a jug of cold brew, a tub of parmesan crisps, a container of kale chips just in case this Loki’s a freak, and an entire apple pie. He writes out a list of things Loki should expect, like the constant EDM music coming from his neighbor, some semi-successful professional DJ, in the late hours of the night, and the cleaning lady, who doesn’t speak English, not because she _can’t_ but because, Bucky suspects, she likes talking about him in her native tongue without him understanding, and random ambushes from the few paparazzo who know exactly where he lives.

He leaves menus for his two favorite take out places on the fridge and a carefully detailed instructions on how to care for Tom (1. Talk to him before you leave the apartment, greet him when you return to the apartment, and always say goodnight before you go to sleep, 2. Feed him roast chicken once every three days and only once every three days, 3. If and when he gets indigestion, coax him onto his back and rub his belly in circles, 4. Never play Ed Sheeran. He hates Ed Sheeran and will scratch you if you try) on the counter under a bowl of fake fruit. He packs a large suitcase, watches two hours of the Holiday Baking Championship, takes a sleeping pill, and knocks out until his flight the next day.

  
Bucky only manages to make his flight undetected because he’s put his distinct, wavy hair under a baseball cap and has dressed in the drabbiest clothes and colors he could find in his closet. He doesn’t even remember buying the vintage, battered leather jacket he pulls over his olive-colored hoodie, but it’s somehow inconspicuous at the same time it actually enhances his generally well-maintained physique. A young woman in a ponytail and yoga pants looks at him with interest at the gate, but he turns away before he can see the recognition light in her eyes. That’s the other part of his plan--surely no one can recognize him if he doesn’t talk to anyone and looks as mean as he possibly can.

It mostly works, except for the five year old who evidently likes him so much that he continues kicking the back of Bucky’s seat for the first hour of his six hour flight to London. He takes another sleeping pill and by the time he lands at Heathrow, he’s only mostly groggy and borderline miserable. He pulls his cap and leather jacket around him closer as he works his way through the airport and to his bags, but no one seems to give him a second thought. His luck lasts him until he reaches London Euston station when he thinks he sees someone get a camera out. Luckily, the lady at the counter shoves his ticket at him quickly and he disappears onto the train, pulling his cap down and slouching in his seat like this is a fucking Agatha Christie novel and not just the daily morning train to Liverpool Lime station.

He falls asleep on the train too, this time not because he is Not Depressed, but because the sleeping pills and the time difference have already fucked his body up and the last thing he really wants is to be awake on a three hour train ride where a lunch cart offering of an overpriced “prawn” sandwich and bag of “crisps” will remind him that he’s literally chosen to run away to a different country, rather than face any sort of responsibility for his actions in the one he lives in.

By the time he gets in to Liverpool, it’s late afternoon and it’s late enough in the year and Liverpool is far enough to the north that it’s nearly twilight anyway. He blearily stumbles out of the station, overstuffed suitcase in tow, and finds the black car waiting for him that he somehow had the drunken foresight to order for himself the night before.

A driver waits with a whiteboard sign that reads  Mr. J Buchanan and is polite enough not to raise an eyebrow at Bucky’s disheveled state when he approaches him.

“Mr. Buchanan?” the driver, a middle-aged man of South Asian descent asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says nervously, as though he’ll be caught in his white lie. “That’s me. Can you take me to this address?”

“If I cannot, JARVIS will,” the man says cheerily.

“JARVIS?” Bucky asks as the man leads him to his car.

“My GPS,” the driver says. “We do make jokes in England, sir.”

“Of course,” Bucky says. “Yeah, yes--I heard that. About England. And the jokes.”

The driver stares at him for a few seconds, either judging him or wondering what on Earth could possibly be wrong with him, or likely both, which, honestly, Bucky wouldn’t blame him for, before lugging Bucky’s suitcase into the drunk and getting into the right hand side of the car.

“Right,” Bucky mutters. “England.”

The drive is scenic and longer than Bucky expects it. It’s recently snowed in Liverpool and the city, a real city with skyscrapers and pubs at every corner, glitters under the beauty of it. There are families out in bright red scarfs, little children running along in blue gloves, holding little flags. They pass the cool, slate grey of the water and the expanse of it, unbroken except for where it’s spotted by ships and boats is soothing to Bucky’s frayed nerves. The wind is so loud it whistles through the car window. Bucky rests his forehead against the cold windowpane and tries to sleep some more.

He has fraught, shallow dreams with a voiceover that sounds disconcertingly like Tony Stark’s voice. _In a world with really messy celebrities and their stupid fuck ups, and there are a lot, I mean_ a lot _, one man stands stupid above the rest._

 _Hey!_ Dream Bucky yells at his overbearing and judgmental dream voiceover. Dream Voiceover ignores him entirely.

_Dumped by his girlfriend of an undetermined number of years because even in his dream he can’t muster up the energy to remember any real details about her--_

_Three years!_ Dream Bucky protests. _It was three years!_

_Right, well, sure, dumped by his girlfriend of three years (because that really makes it better, Barnes, you know that makes it worse right?), because he told her he liked her ‘a whole lot,’ one actor will try to act his way out of anything, even having real, human feelings! Coming this holiday season to a Hallmark channel near you (because this is so cliche and boring not even Lifetime or Freeform would greenlight this miserable production), the story of a man with no feelings and no heart, run away to the middle of nowhere to escape a situation of his own making._

“I have feelings,” Bucky mutters in his sleep, unaware he’s actually saying anything out loud. “And a heart.”

“Americans,” the driver says in the front seat with a deep shake of his head. “Always so sensitive.”

  
The car pulls to a sudden stop and Bucky jerks awake, drowsily.

“We here?” he asks, aggressively rubbing the jet lag from his eyes.

“No, sir,” the driver says. “But I cannot take you any further. My car will not make it up through those trees. I will be stuck.”

Frowning, Bucky looks out the window and sees that the driver is probably right. The narrow road winds up and through a set of snowy, green trees. If the road is iced over, the car will probably slide right back down the way it came.

“How far is it from here?” Bucky asks.

“I would say just under two kilometers, sir,” the driver says.

“Kilometers,” Bucky says. “How’s that in miles?”

“I am sure it is just fine in miles, sir,” the driver says. He looks into the rearview mirror and stares at Bucky, challenging him. Bucky stares back, meeting the challenge. They stare at one another, challenging.

“I will pay you,” Bucky says. “I’ll die going up that hill. My legs weren’t meant for that hill.”

“Oh thank you sir,” the driver says with a gracious smile. “Very thank you sir. That American sense of humor, sir. Always very clever.”

  
Bucky stares up the hill despondently as the driver pulls away. Then, with the air of a defeated man, he begins dragging his luggage toward this hidden English cottage.  


The cottage is both bigger and cozier than Bucky was expecting it to be. Sitting behind a little iron gate, the angled, thatched roof sits atop a stone, two story house that only spreads as far as two different sections. The windowpanes are small and square and framed in dark blue shutters and trim and somewhere behind the pointed front of the roof juts out a charming little chimney. There’s a smooth stone path leading up to the front door and empty patches where, Bucky thinks, in the summer there are clearly flowers blooming.

It’s charming even before he opens the door and even more charming after. He finds the key under the doormat and pulls his suitcase over a green woven welcome mat and through the doorway. Inside, there’s immediately a small foyer, which leads off to a cozy sitting room with a plush, white couch and a fireplace. Nestled behind this area is the kitchen and to the left is a narrow set of wooden stairs that leads to the second floor. The decoration is minimal--clean and efficient, but not unwelcoming. There aren’t pictures of this Loki anywhere nor any pictures of families or friends. Bucky can understand that and it makes him feel closer to his ghost of a host, for a moment, that maybe they share this one, similar thing.

In the corner of the sitting area is a rather small Christmas tree, with a few baubles strung up and a single, glittery star at the top. It’s a slightly sad effort, but it’s an effort nonetheless. The best part of the tree is the beautiful dog napping just underneath it.

“Hey,” Bucky smiles, squatting and running a hand over the sleeping dog’s ears. “You must be Riley.”

Riley gives a little snuffle snort and continues sleeping. Bucky can deeply relate. He suddenly misses Tom a totally normal amount and not at all with the yearning of someone whose best friend is a cat.

Bucky drags his suitcase up the stairs. The hallway branches off in two directions, with a room on either end. One of the rooms is closed, while the other is wide open. He takes his chances and assumes he ends up in the right one. This room looks barely lived in, with a bed, a dresser, and very little else. The covers, a solid, light green, are pulled tightly at each corner, pristine. The only hint of a person or history in the entirety of the room is an old, beat up old plush horse on the corner of the dresser itself. Bucky picks it up. It’s worn and soft and clearly well-loved, a bit of warmth and heart in a place that’s minimal to a fault otherwise. Bemused, he puts it back and wonders at the story behind it.

Then he does the immediately apparent thing and throws himself on top of the perfectly made bed, socks and all. He counts the hours on his fingers with a yawn. Okay, a nap, and then maybe he’ll wander out and explore. Or maybe he’ll just spend the next two weeks curled up in bed with a nice science fiction book. Neither sound terrible, if he’s going to be honest.

  
He wakes up to dog on chest.

“Woof,” Riley looks down at him.

“Bud,” Bucky looks up at him, sleepily. “Hey. I’m Bucky. You can call me...Bucky.”

“Woof,” Riley replies and, Bucky swears, tilts his head to give him quite the discerning pup look. He must like what he sees because after a moment, he licks a stripe up Bucky’s face.

“Gross!” Bucky exclaims, with no heat. “We’re not to that level yet. We’re firmly at sniffing. Sniffing first, then licking. Then if I like what I see, we can get to the snuggles.”

He offers his hand to Riley and the dog eagerly sniffs it and accepts Bucky’s terms and conditions. Bucky rubs at his head and nose for a good half an hour before deciding no, it’s time.

Bucky pulls on his coat, sets out fresh food for Riley, per Loki’s careful instructions, and finally makes his way out into the crisp Liverpool air.

First thing’s first, he needs to buy food. He finds the keys to the car sitting carefully on the kitchen counter and braces himself to drive on what is clearly the wrong side of the road. He manages with very few incidents, although there’s a frightened deer somewhere that might beg to differ. He pulls into a small town just outside of Liverpool proper where, despite a dusting of snow and whistling wind, there seem to be more than just a few people out, wandering from bar to shop and shop to bakery.

He finds his way to a charming little grocery store and wanders through the narrow aisles, basket on his arm, with more vigor than he’s had for existing in months. He stuffs everything he can see into the basket--a box of Jaffa cakes, bakewell tarts, three Milka bars, two Cadbury Dairy Milk bars, a Flakes bar, an Aero bar, okay really just an inordinate amount of chocolate, a freshly baked baguette, a triangle of gouda cheese, a triangle of sharp cheddar, a jug of milk, three brands of crisps he can’t differentiate between, a bottle of wine, and two bottles of chardonnay because he damn well can. Also a six pack of Carlsberg because sometimes he just likes to sit on the couch and watch his baking competitions while eating cheese and drinking beer, like a neanderthal.

He reaches the counter and the woman ringing him up raises an eyebrow.

“Big party, have we?” she asks.

“Yup,” Bucky says. “Yeah, definitely. Huge party.”

“You’re American!” the woman exclaims, delighted.

“People keep telling me that,” Bucky says and winks at her. “Although I can’t imagine why.”

The woman is charmed, of course, because when Bucky Barnes isn’t a complete disaster, he’s actually charming as hell. She gives him an extra chocolate bar for his efforts, which honestly makes this the best day he’s had since he got the call for _The Howling Commandos_.

He dumps the groceries into his car and is smiling, even to other people, which comes as a shock to him, if not to the complete strangers who have no idea why this strange man is grinning at them almost manically.

“Can’t b’lieve Klopp left Sturridge on the bench,” someone, a man with a warm red hat on, is saying to the woman who is on his arm.

“He coulda made the decidin’ goal,” the woman bemoans, nodding to him. “Always a bridesmaid, never a bride with this team.”

“Really thought we had a shot this year,” the man says wistfully and the woman pats his shoulder lightly.

“Year’s not over yet, Hal,” she smiles at him, a soft, loving thing. The man looks down at her and it’s with a tenderness Bucky can’t really fathom. He leans down and gives her a kiss and it’s so strange and inexplicably sweet that Bucky catches himself wondering what that would be like, to have someone he cared for so much that just walking with them or talking with them or even seeing them would make him unable to stop smiling.

“No it’s not,” the man says and they stroll away.

Bucky swallows and shakes his head, makes his way to a pub that’s packed with Christmas lights and good cheer.

  
“What can I get you for?” the bartender, a man with ink crawling up his neck, says in a pure Scouse accent.

“Whatever’s on tap,” Bucky says, shrugging out of his coat at the bar. “You decide for me. And fries? I mean--chips?”

“I can speak American, don’t you worry,” the bartender laughs.

Bucky settles down and tries to watch whatever’s on TV--which happens to be some soccer game between a red team and a blue team that he doesn’t really understand. He assumes it’s a replay because it’s night out by now, but he doesn’t know enough about sports to be certain one way or another.

“Here,” the bartender says, pushing the beer at Bucky with a smile. “ _Fries_ will be out in a minute.”

“Cheers,” Bucky says and it’s about as British as he can get, which makes the bartender laugh.

He tries to watch the game for a little while longer, but honestly he’s never really understood soccer or any sport in general. He takes to people watching, instead, letting the alcohol calm his ever-present anxiety. There are obviously locals here, watching the game, laughing together, talking together, eating and drinking through mugs of beer together, and waving their friends in through the door. There’s a sense of familiarity and camaraderie, like a family away from family, that Bucky absorbs, just by sitting here and getting to witness it. It’s not altogether the worst way to spend his first day alone.

The bartender brings him his fries and he’s digging into his first one when someone comes and stands next to him.

“This seat taken?”

Bucky tears his eyes away from his mound of fried potato to look at the person and--oh. _Oh_.

Tall and blond stands next to him, with a body stacked like bricks and blue eyes that are almost painful to look directly at. He’s wearing a lilac-colored sweater that peeks out under a puffy coat that has fake fur lining the hood. He’s rosy-cheeked and _beautiful_ and, as if that wasn’t absurd enough, almost looks shy for asking.

Bucky swallows around a fry.

“Yeah, my invisible date’s gonna be real pissed.”

The man blinks for a moment, as though startled, and laughs.

“How can you tell?” he asks and takes the seat anyway. Bucky has the wherewithal to look miffed, which only makes the guy laugh again. “I’m not sitting on her now am I?”

“As a matter of fact you’re not,” Bucky says. “But that’s only because she went to the invisible lady’s room to touch up her invisible makeup. And for your information, invisible people have feelings too.”

“My apologies to your invisible friend,” the man says and Bucky’s almost entirely sure he’s being sincere about it.

“I don’t know,” Bucky says, taking another fry. “Seems kinda impersonal to me.”

“Well I’d offer her an apology myself, but,” and the man is smiling again. It’s really an astoundingly good look on him. “Well, I can’t see her.”

“Honestly sounds like a poor excuse,” Bucky says, swallowing another fry.

“Well this just keeps getting worse,” the man says. “I’ve dug myself into an invisible hole and I can’t seem to dig my way out.”

“Ah,” Bucky says, sagely, and eats another fry. “A common occurrence among the invisibile-y-challenged.”

“You seem pretty experienced, though,” the man says. The bartender finishes helping another customer and finally comes back over to the two of them.

“The usual, Steve?” he asks.

“That’d be great, Drax.”

“I’ve had a lotta invisible dates in my lifetime, _Steve_ ,” Bucky grins. He lifts his mug in toast to Steve the Tall Blond.

“I defer to your expertise--?” the question is evident at the end of Steve’s question.

“Bucky,” Bucky says.

“Bucky,” Steve smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Bucky. Sorry for insulting your invisible date. That wasn’t very polite of me.”

Bucky laughs.

“It’s okay,” he says. “She wasn’t much of a date. I think she was planning on leaving me for the invisible man you can’t see in the corner.”

“Sounds like you’re having a rough day,” Steve says, just as Drax brings him his beer.

“Don’t know what kinda flirtin’ you Americans do, but it’s weird,” Drax declares. He gives Steve an extra napkin, raises an eyebrow, and walks away.

Bucky notices Steve color and glare daggers at Drax’s back, which only makes him laugh again. He hasn’t laughed this much in so long, he’d forgotten how nice it feels.

“You flirtin’ with me, Steve?” Bucky asks, with a smile into his mug of beer.

“No,” Steve says, coloring some more.

“That’s too bad,” Bucky says, casually. He picks up a fry and very, very carefully eats it. “‘Cause I was flirtin’ with you.”

“Oh,” Steve says, and he seems genuinely embarrassed and pleased and dumbfounded all at the same time. “That’s--I mean--I wasn’t not--”

Bucky’s known Steve for all of two minutes and he already finds it ridiculously endearing how a man of his size and absolutely objective state of attractiveness flounders so absurdly often.

“Holy shit,” Steve mutters and gulps down more beer.

“Not your best try?” Bucky guesses.

“Far from my best try,” Steve says, grateful for the lifeline. “Not even close to my best try. Planets away from it.”

“How’d an American like you end up in a British bar like this, Steve?” Bucky asks with a smile.

Steve looks at his tankard and smiles a little, like an inside joke Bucky isn’t aware of.

“Someone made me an offer I couldn’t refuse,” he says and when he looks back up at Bucky, Bucky gets the feeling he’s not actually looking at him, but at something else entirely. Then, as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. “What about you?”

“Same,” Bucky says. “In a way. I made someone else an offer they couldn’t refuse, in another way.”

“That’s not confusing at all,” Steve remarks. “Can I steal a fry?”

“After you sat on my date?”

“I didn’t sit on her!” Steve exclaims. “She went to the invisible bathroom!’

“Oh, right,” Bucky says with a half-smile. “Guess it’s okay, then.”

“Gonna take two for the false accusation,” Steve says and does as he’s promised. Bucky laughs again--Jesus, is this what he does now? He just laughs at everything this stupidly hot and funny guy says?--and takes a fry for himself.

“Just here for a few weeks,” Bucky says. “You here for the holidays?”

“I live here,” Steve says, which surprises Bucky.

“Here-here?” Bucky leans toward him. “As in at this bar? As in in this stool?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods, while eating a fry. “Actually the stool you’re sitting on. You’re trespassing, as a matter of fact.”

“You stole another fry,” Bucky says. “Don’t think I didn’t see.”

Steve grins, guiltily. He’s about to open his mouth to say something else, when the door to the pub opens, letting in a gust of cold air and the chattering of a group of college students.

“No, he’s so dreamy,” one of the young women is saying. “I don’t care what they’re saying, I’d leave Ollie for him in a heartbeat.”

“Oh you would not, you’re so smitten with him,” her friend laughs. “Did you even watch the Dottie Underwood interview?”

“I can’t believe they interviewed her,” another friend says. “It’s a break up, not a political statement. This entire thing is overblown, I almost miss the Kardashians.”

“Oh stop,” the first young woman says. “Honestly both of you are too much. If I had a man like Bucky Barnes to love me, I wouldn’t need anyone else.”

“You didn’t watch the interview at all!” the second friend laughs, nearly shrieks. “That’s the entire point. He doesn’t love. He _can’t_.”

The fry that’s in Bucky’s mouth turns to ash. His good mood, deflated, sinks to the bottom of his stomach, along with the ash fry, beer, and every other feeling he has. His heart is hammering in his ears and his palms are sweaty. Is he having a panic attack? He can’t be having a panic attack.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, immediately concerned. The other man leans in closer, one broad palm tentatively on Bucky’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Bucky--no. Fuck, no he’s not okay. He can’t breathe. He shakily pulls free from Steve, manages to find some bills, and slaps them down on the counter. He staggers to his feet.

“Bucky,” Steve says and gets up too. “What’s wrong?”

Bucky just shakes his head, swallowing and hoping the group of girls doesn’t notice him.

“Nothing, I just--I gotta go,” he says, not thinking straight. “I gotta go, Steve. Hey, it was nice meeting you. Hope I’ll see you around. Thanks again.”

Steve looks at him questioningly, clearly concerned, but Bucky doesn’t have the capacity to notice or care. He slings on his jacket and stumbles out the door into the chilled air.

He takes in a deep, rattling breath and makes it to the car where he tries to open the wrong side before realizing he has to go to the right side here. He manages, somehow, to get the door open, manages, somehow, to get inside the car, manages, somehow, to drive through the snow out of town and back up the hill to the cottage.

It isn’t until Bucky’s made it into the house that he sort of crumples into himself on the couch. He hides his face in a pillow and makes himself breathe in and out until Riley comes and noses into his side and helps him stop shaking.

  
Bucky had once, is the thing he doesn’t let himself remember. He had found his person once upon a time, had said so many _I love yous_ and believed them so deeply that it seemed to him no one in the world could ever hope to compare, then or ever again. Maybe he still feels that way, in a place he’s locked away, somewhere down inside. Maybe that’s why he can’t say a simple _I love you_ or watch old Meg Ryan movies anymore without turning it off just before she and Tom Hanks find true love together. Maybe Bucky Barnes just doesn’t believe in that anymore, that kind of person, and that kind of love. At least, he thinks, not for himself. Not ever again.


	4. The Penthouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leaves the house perfect for his guest, with a detailed list of Riley’s needs and caring habits left on the kitchen counter, as promised. It will look as though no one lives here at all or that a ghost does, Loki thinks, and perhaps that is true or, at least, for the best.
> 
> Loki leaves the cottage without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Fourth Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, a Loki and space giraffe poetry. (You'll see soon enough)
> 
> **Slight TW for brief suicidal ideation/consideration**

He makes it on a train back to Liverpool that night, somehow. Loki doesn’t think about it, just goes through the motions of packing his things, buying the train ticket, and putting in his request for leave as an afterthought, halfway through his Xanax-induced train ride. He doesn’t cry again. It’s not worth it to him, to cry. It hasn’t been worth it to him for a very long time, but he had forgotten that, had let himself lapse for a moment and that moment had been a moment utterly too long. Instead, Loki lets a familiar, almost calm numbness fill him and carry him back home.

His flatmate had texted him a week ago that he would be traveling for the holidays, so Loki finds the cottage blissfully, almost serenely empty except for the dog. His flatmate would have taken him, but his girlfriend’s mother’s allergic and constant traveling isn’t good for pets anyway. They have a caretaker they’ve hired for these occasions, but for now Loki finds the dog’s presence comforting. At least he’s not a human, which Loki appreciates most of all.

Loki sits on his couch, patting Riley absentmindedly and trying not to think or care otherwise. He stares at a green bottle of pills on the coffee table. It wouldn’t be the first time, but it would be the first time someone’s not there to bring him back from the edge. The first time, there was a girl at the fourth or fifth foster home he had been placed with, Amora. She had been a handful and, honestly, a bit of a nightmare, but he had liked her. She had liked him too, enough to call their foster mother when she saw--

Well, anyway. Loki stares at the bottle and wonders. It couldn’t be any worse than this painful, pointless, numb existence. Riley noses into his thigh and Loki looks at him with a sigh.

“Someone will take care of you,” Loki says. “Even if I’m gone.”

It’s perhaps devastating in a way he hadn’t intended it to be, that even the dog has someone to care for him, at the end of things. Maybe it’s this that makes him pick up the green bottle, stare at it closer.

He’s about worked up the courage to twist the cap off when a _ding!_ goes off on his laptop.

Loki stares at the green bottle, really stares at it, feels it, contemplates it. Almost actually twists the cap off. Then, with a sigh, he puts the bottle down. Riley barks at him.

He gets up to go look at his laptop.

  
Loki is an obsessive compulsive cleaner, so that’s how he distracts himself the night before the flight. He puts everything back in its rightful place, dusts every corner and mantle, straightens every crooked frame, and even washes Riley’s bed. He hasn’t slept in his own room in weeks, but he still washes the sheets, re-makes the bed, dusts, straightens, and makes sure everything is pristine for the guest he will never meet. He packs a suitcase and, for a moment, he stops at his dresser and picks up Svaðilfari. He doesn’t remember much of his mother, but he does have one fleeting memory of her giving him the plush horse before he was taken away by child services. No matter how many foster homes he had been transferred to, Svað was always his one constant. Loki runs his fingers over the small horse’s well-loved, familiar mane and he’s tempted to take him, for luck or comfort, or just a bit of home. But then he thinks he would be devastated if anything happened to him, this one happy corner of his childhood.

“Next time, old friend,” he says and places Svaðilfari back on the dresser.

He leaves the house perfect for his guest, with a detailed list of Riley’s needs and caring habits left on the kitchen counter, as promised. It will look as though no one lives here at all or that a ghost does, Loki thinks, and perhaps that is true or, at least, for the best.

Loki leaves the cottage without looking back.

  
He books an obscenely long flight so he can fly from Liverpool to New York City because he cannot bear to be back in London for even a transfer right now. There’s little to no chance that he will run into Baldur at Heathrow or anywhere else, but if the no chance doesn’t bother him, then the little chance nearly sends him spiraling toward an anxiety attack if he stops to think about it too long.

He has a layover in Sweden and another in Canada and he takes pills that will allow him to remain unconscious in the comforts of First Class the entire 16 hours there. Before the flight takes off, he checks his phone one last time, and it’s honestly the worst mistake he’s made in a very long time. His vision blurs in and out a little, but not nearly enough to not process what’s clearly on the screen.

 **Baldur:** I hear you’re getting away for a bit

 **Baldur:** and without a word!

 **Baldur:** well deserved though, mate

 **Baldur:** will be expecting pictures of the saucy kind ;)

 **Baldur:** happy hols, lo x

Loki reads and rereads the text messages until he makes himself sick with them. The flight attendant announces that the flight is about to take off, so he writes out what he needs to before he can convince himself otherwise.

 **Loki:** Baldur, we both know I am deeply and misguidedly in love with you and need not to be. Please let me try to be otherwise. Best of luck to you and Nanna. And the baby. Loki.

He tries to feel numb instead of hollow and grief-stricken and he might even convince himself that he’s managed to do so. But the truth is, even seeing Baldur’s name sends a sharp stab through Loki’s chest that he feels unable to recover from.

Loki shuts off his phone and closes his eyes, swallowing. It’s always like this, he supposes. He gets a good thing and the good thing is taken away from him. His father had told him, once, before he’d left and Loki, being not yet four, hadn’t believed him. He’d eventually learned better. It’s no wonder he’s sold his life to the most feelingless, cutthroat environment possible. At least with money, it has no means to betray you and with constant competition, there’s no doubt where you stand.

“Can I get you anything, Mr. Laufeyson?” the airline attendant asks with a smile.

“A glass of water would be lovely,” Loki says, a moment too late, a beat off, but he might even manage to not give her dead eyes.

He takes a deep breath and the attendant comes back with a bottle of Fiji water. He opens it, takes two sleeping pills, and swallows.

  
He lands at JFK International Airport an hour earlier than planned. He breezes through customs and picks up his very expensive luggage before bracing himself against the chill, New York City air. The taxi line is unbearably long, so calls a Lyft and puts in the address for the penthouse in Manhattan.

“Had a good flight?” the driver asks in a cheerily American fashion.

“I will tip you an extra 50 U.S. dollars if you do not speak to me for the rest of the ride,” Loki says. He doesn’t mean to be unpleasant, but Baldur’s name still keeps flashing in front of his eyes and he just--he needs a moment to recalibrate.

The driver pauses, as though weighing the benefits of being offended and protecting his own dignity and a 50 extra dollars. In the end, capitalism wins, as Loki always expects it to.

“All right,” the driver says and, mercifully, doesn’t speak another work the entire ride.

Loki loosens his collar and tilts his head toward the window, watching mindlessly as first Queens passes by outside and then Manhattan comes into view.  


There are similarities between London and New York City, in certain ways. In others, this American city is unique and dirty and bustling with uncontrolled life in a way that London can’t hope to claim. It’s turning dark by now and the waters of the Hudson sweep from a cold steel grey to deep purple to an inky, dark blue in the time it takes the car to cross over the bridge. Lights from the sweeping skyscrapers make the glass structures glitter in the dark and the heavy outlines of massive buildings punctuate the view, a cityscape that takes the breath away.

Loki drums his fingers on the windowpane, feeling the cool glass under his fingertips, letting the moment take him out of his mind and into some other place entirely. Even the constant stops at red lights are calming and Loki is rarely charmed, but he finds the sparkling holiday lights charming, displays of snow and good cheer and a rare spirit found amidst the windows of a usually, desolately capitalist landscape. But even rampant capitalism can’t erase the happiness rolling off of tourists and natives alike, trudging down Fifth Avenue with large bags of presents, for themselves or for others it doesn’t really matter. Loki sees pink noses and pink cheeks and children walking with their parents, warm knit caps on heads and gloves and mittens found hand in hand. Loki swallows around something in his throat, but it’s not terrible, for once, it’s almost a yearning and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself looking forward to doing something completely unchecked.

The driver takes him down the East side, past the Flatiron building and Union Square, cut through SoHo to get to a cute, clearly trendy area. Loki watches New York City pass through the window the entire time, almost eagerly, and by the time the driver stops, he’s not only breathing, he’s actually smiling.

The driver helps him get his luggage out and doesn’t say another word, for which Loki opts to tip him $100 in the name of holiday spirit that he may not have found, but that he’s appreciated seeing.

  
The lobby to the penthouse is nice without being too nice and the doorman takes his name, double and triple checking who he is and that it matches with his records. It’s thorough enough that Loki figures this Bucky is hiding something more than whatever it is _he_ is clearly running from, but that’s not his secret to discover, as much as he would like to. The doorman helps him take the luggage up to the very top floor, which requires a security clearance that is handed to Loki in the form of a card he can swipe.

The elevator opens into one of the most charming (that word again, Loki glowers a little) and loveliest little apartments he’s ever seen. Bucky’s penthouse apartment is clearly newly renovated, with smooth, cedar plank flooring, light grey walls, and everything in black trim. The kitchen, which is immediately to the right of the entrance, is all dark wood and granite countertops with two espresso machines, a KitchenAid stand mixer, and a normal coffee maker sitting neatly next to what Loki recognizes as a very impressive set of kitchen knives.

To the left is a bathroom and large coat closet and through the entranceway, past the kitchen and an intervening area set up with a dining table and chairs, is an enormous,tastefully decorated living room with a plush white sectional and a small, leather recliner opposite a massive television screen and entertainment center. Loki, forgetting his luggage entirely, goes through the shelves and finds an impressive collection of movies and television shows, both animated and non-animated, interspersed with little figurines. On the opposite wall is a large, framed poster of James Dean and a wall of square mirrors next to it.  

Loki turns slightly and sees the view through the balcony and his heart nearly stutters. The building isn’t tall enough to take in the entire cityscape, but it is tall enough to take in enough of it and Loki, even from his place inside the penthouse, can see what he thinks is Washington Square Park through the glass door. He’s tempted to wander through, but he sees the set of stairs leading up to the loft and curiosity gets the better of him.

The upstairs is a little simpler than the downstairs, but no less wonderful. The entire area is taken up by an enormous bedroom with a walk-in closet near the back. But to the left--that’s what stops Loki in his tracks. His breath catches and he steps forward, across a plush, white rug, to the sun deck.

The night air is cold by now and Loki thinks he can see tendrils of his breath, but he ignores it and the way the cold seeps into his skin beneath his clothes. There’s a couch and two plush chairs out here on the sundeck, with a small pit in the middle for a fire, another whitewashed wooden table, and plants that don’t seem to have made it through the onslaught of cold weather. That’s all charming in its own right, but it’s not that but the view, the real view, that makes Loki shiver. He clutches the railing and leans over, looking down at the cars passing by underneath, and then across the city, a city that glitters and glows even at this time of the evening.

Loki’s been in many nice apartments and even his own small, studio in London isn’t exactly wanting, but this is lovely and glamorous in a way that Loki, having grown up in some of the worst neighborhoods and foster homes in England, isn’t used to. Baldur’s apartment, for all its clean, regal majesty, is nothing like this. Here, Loki can feel the presence of his ghost companion, a real person who lives here, who’s chosen to live here, who, clearly, has made the most of living here.

When he passes back in, Loki notices a few photo frames here and there and if Loki was any connoisseur of popular culture and entertainment, he might even recognize the clearly attractive and confident young man in the frames. But being Loki, he doesn’t recognize Bucky at all, except in that he finds himself jealous of this young, beautiful, successful young man who has found a home here and made it, and his life, his own.

Loki looks at his phone, turned off or dead he couldn’t say, and debates turning it back on. Then he remembers Baldur’s message and then he remembers Baldur’s face and then he remembers the look on Nanna’s as she turned around, stomach swelling with child.

Loki swallows, pushing it back, pushing it all the way back, and changes quickly. He’s about to get into bed when he notices something white with black patches peeking out at him through the door.

“Hello,” Loki says. “You must be Tom.”

Tom considers him for a moment and then mrows.

“I hope you do not mind,” Loki says. “It has been a long day and I only wish to fall unconscious for the next two weeks. Do you have any protestations?”

Tom mrows again in response.

“I will make a mental note of it,” Loki nods at the cat. He gets under the sheet, but the cat is still staring at him, watching, as though waiting. Loki hesitates and then reaches for the light. “Goodnight, Tom.”

After a moment Tom mrows in satisfaction and plods back out of the room, tail swishing behind him.

  
Loki wakes up around two in the morning, comforter pushed down to his waist and socks kicked off. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the heat of the apartment, jet lag, or his own neuroses and, personally, he doesn’t care. He gets out of bed, dressed in silk sleep pants that goes with a set of silk pajamas he had, one day, bought and, in a drunken fit of inspiration, had embroidered with his name, and a soft, loose t-shirt that he had stolen from his flatmate at some point and never bothered to return. He goes down the stairs to the kitchen, pours himself a cold glass of water and drains it in three, long gulps.

He’s sweating and nervous and on the verge of turning on his cell phone and checking work emails, when Tom comes up to him, rubs his nose against Loki’s shin.

Loki takes a deep breath and bends down to scoop up the cat. He then goes through Bucky’s cabinets, finds a bottle of wine, and pours himself a glass. Careful not to splash even a drop, he settles onto the couch, big, soft ball of cat curled up in his arms. Loki turns on the television. It’s on the Food Network, which Loki has never watched, but has heard much about, mostly because his flatmate only watches the Food Network when he isn’t re-watching Game of Thrones for the five hundredth time.

He lets the sounds of Alton Brown and a particularly nice red wine soothe his edges, while Tom, digging his nose into Loki’s arm, does the rest.

When he falls back asleep, curled up with Tom and Alton, he’s not sure, but he does, thankfully, remember to put the wine glass down on the coffee table sometime before.

  
He wakes up to a blaring, buzzing sound. Startled, Loki jerks into motion, upsetting Tom, who yelps at him angrily and darts away. He stumbles from the couch over to where he thinks the sound is coming from. It’s the speaker. He jabs buttons blindly. He always forgets how bleary he is in the morning, especially when he’s forgotten to take his contacts out the night before.

“Hello?” he asks, voice raspy from sleep.

“HELLO?” a booming voice, well, booms into the speaker.

Loki winces.

“Can you keep it down? Some of us are trying to sleep,” he says and moves his head side-to-side, trying to work the crick out of his neck. His body is never thankful for him falling asleep unintentionally on a couch.

“BARNES,” the voice booms again. “It’s me!”

“I don’t know who you are,” Loki snaps into the speaker, but he’s forgotten to press the button again. “There is no one here by the name of Barnes. Go away.”

“HELLO?” the booming voice sounds concerned this time.

“Hello?” Loki sounds annoyed. Loki is annoyed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

He presses the button marked “door” and a loud buzzing sound replaces the booming voice.

Loki yawns, irate, and stretches, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Distantly, he realizes that his hair must be a mess, sticking up all sorts of ways. He always wakes up with a wavy, half-curly mess, even when he hasn’t showered the night before.

There’s another noise, this time like a _ding!_ , and the elevator door slides open.

Loki is ready, absolutely _ready_ to tell this cretin off. He crosses his arms to do so. He looks up, absolutely prepared. Then he stops.

Standing in the open elevator is a mammoth of a man, all muscles and blue eyes and long, blond hair that’s half pulled back and half falling idyllically around his shoulders. He’s wearing a big, puffy black coat and a red scarf that looks more like a blanket than a scarf. His scruffy, perfect face is pink from windburn and he looks mildly confused, but still inexplicably jovial as though he is asking, without asking, “?”, but is happy to be doing so.

“You’re not Barnes,” the man says in his desperately deep voice, with an Australian accent, and it’s a little stupid and infuriating that someone this hot could somehow manage to be _hotter_ , but this is the life Loki leads, he supposes.

“Very clever,” Loki responds, drily. “Guess my hair color next.”

“Dark,” the man says, cheerfully, though squinting a little. “Very dark. Black? Sorry, I think the wind has turned me blind.”

“That is not how the wind works,” Loki says, despite himself. “And that is borderline offensive.”

“Sorry,” the man offers and, to his credit, he sounds sincere. “I’m Thor.”

“Goodbye, Thor,” Loki says and goes to turn. The elevator begins shutting and Thor catches it, with his hand, and forces it open. For the love of God, when will life stop handing him men who could crush him between their thighs?

“Wait! Sorry, I’ve made a bad impression. Are you a friend of Barnes? May I come in?”

“How do I know you won’t rob the place?” Loki asks, suspicious.

“I know Barnes,” Thor says, finally sounding chastened. “We’re friends.”

“Not good enough friends,” Loki says, crossing his arms. “To know when he is out of the country, it seems.”

“He’s out of the country?” Thor asks, with a slight curse. He runs a hand through his absurdly perfect hair managing, somehow, to not ruin it in the least. This is getting out of hand. Loki is honestly getting a little angry.

“Yes,” he says and tries to be as icy as humanly possible. “Until the 29th. I am here in his stead and I would appreciate not being disturbed.”

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Thor says, his face falling, genuinely falling. “Barnes had a book he borrowed and I needed it back.”

“That sounds like the perfect excuse one would use to rob a place,” Loki says. He’s not blatantly checking this Thor out, but he’s not trying to not blatantly check him out either.

“I’m not robbing anyone, I swear,” Thor says, holding his palms up. “Look, you can follow me around, see that I only take the one book. I’ll leave a note on his counter. Or you could call him? He’ll tell you I’m his friend.”

Loki loses all false leverage if he reveals that he doesn’t have Bucky in his phone yet, so he doesn’t answer that part at all. Instead, he folds his arms and then unfolds them. Thor looks at him with desperate sincerity.

“Please,” Thor says again. “I’m stuck on a verse and I think this book has what I’m looking for. It’s a picture, my memory can’t jog itself. It’s important.”

“Honestly, none of that made a bit of sense,” Loki says with a sigh, but he’s tired and watching Thor’s perfect face light up and fall and light up and fall multiple times over the course of sixty seconds is wearing on him. Also, he’s distantly aware that he hasn’t brushed his teeth yet and his hair is a morning mess. He gestures toward the entertainment shelves and sitting room while discreetly also trying to fix his hair. With his luck, he probably ends up making it worse.

“Thank you, really,” Thor says, with a warm smile that actually, ridiculously reaches his eyes.

Loki follows Thor into the living room, curiously watching him go through the books on Bucky’s bookshelf, then the books next to the BluRays and DVDs in his entertainment center, then, finally, onto the books on Bucky’s coffee table. It’s here that he lets out a triumphant sound like _aha!_ and picks up what’s clearly a coffee table book. He looks back up at Loki eagerly, as though he’s been desperate to prove to him that he wasn’t lying after all. Loki, despite himself, finds the whole affair kind of endearing. What a strange man.

“That is a book on space,” Loki says, abandoning his perch by the open doorway to come stand next to Thor. Loki is tall, six feet even, but he still only reaches Thor’s ears. He stares at him. “What are you, a giraffe?”

Thor laughs at that, appreciatively. It’s not a quiet laugh, but something that requires his entire body, his muscles trembling with little aftershocks of laughter. What a ridiculous human being, Loki thinks, absently.

“It is a book on space,” Thor agrees and opens the book for Loki to see. Inside the glossy pages are high resolution pictures of what galaxies look like or should look like, all star clusters and swirls of purples and pinks and blue nebulas and bright, red imploding stars that Loki has to admit are breathtaking.

“What, are you writing space poetry?” Loki mutters. “Are you a giraffe space poet?”

“A music director,” Thor is laughing again. “Although maybe that’s just the inspiration I need.”

“Space poetry?” Loki asks.

“Giraffe space poetry,” Thor says. “Maybe that’s the entire musical, a giraffe and a poet meet in space.”

“That is absurd,” Loki says, crossing his arms again, but he’s tapping his fingers on one arm, which is always a sign that he’s amused or at least considering. “Is the poet a giraffe as well? Why are they meeting in space? Where in space? What is the emotional turnpoint of this musical?”

“All fine questions,” Thor says, solemnly. “The giraffe is in love with a poet who is not a giraffe. They meet in space for a final goodbye, on a planet somewhere, I suppose.”

“So it is a romance,” Loki’s lips quirk up.

“Oh no,” Thor says, shaking his head gravely. “It is a tragedy. The poet can never love the giraffe.”

“Well why not?” Loki asks, not realizing his voice has gotten louder and more demanding.

“The poet doesn’t have the word for love, so he can never love or return love.”

“That is ridiculous.” Loki stares at Thor, almost angry about this entire conversation. “A poet’s entire existence is words.”

“I know,” Thor says and he looks stricken. Sounds stricken too. What an absolute bastard. “That’s the tragedy.”

Loki looks at him, eyes nearly bugging out of his head and Thor has the _audacity_ to throw his head back and laugh. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down distractingly.

“I need you to leave this flat,” Loki says. “Before I lose my sanity.”

“I’m sorry,” Thor says with another laugh, but he doesn’t _sound_ sorry. His eyes twinkle with mischief and mirth, which is as attractive as it is infuriating. What’s worse is that there is no way he doesn’t know it. Yes, big and blond has to go.

Loki walks Thor to the elevator and pointedly presses the button for him. The elevator door slides open and Thor gets in. He turns around, book clutched to his chest, and a grin on his face.

“I’m not actually sorry,” Thor says.

“I figured,” Loki mutters. “As I do have eyes.”

“So do I,” Thor says and his grin widens even more. “ _Loki_.”

Loki frowns, deeply.

“How did you--”

And Thor’s grin widens more, somehow. It shouldn’t be possible, but it definitely does. He looks down at Loki’s silk pajamas pointedly and Loki looks down and--oh for god’s sake. He blushes immediately, his own embroidered name staring back at him vividly.

“I’ll see you around, Loki!” Thor calls as the elevator door closes shut and, what’s more, the big, dumb idiot actually sounds like he means it.

“Of all the nuisances,” Loki mutters, still warm and embarrassed. From somewhere down by his feet, Tom mrows.

The cat doesn’t seem like he believes him.


	5. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he can’t possibly watch one more episode without wanting to blow his brains out, he tries to read one of the three science fiction novels he brought with him. When he was younger, science fiction had been Bucky’s entire life. For a brief period of time, before acting became an option for him, Bucky had wanted to become either an astronaut or an alien or, preferably, both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Fifth Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, a drunk and v. lucky Bucky.
> 
> Thank you so much for your love and comments! Cannot express how happy I am that people think I'm doing this utterly silly and thoroughly delightful holiday romcom justice! If you need a soundtrack to augment your reading experience for the better, I highly recommend pulling up The Holiday soundtrack on Spotify. It is DELIGHTFUL.

Bucky doesn’t leave the cottage the entire next day. He eats his way through all of the candy bars he bought, tries one bag of crisps, hates it, tries another bag of crisps, hates it a bit less, tries to watch a marathon of some British reality show called Love Island that he gets sucked into for a good five episodes before deciding he’s better than this, makes a cheese and butter sandwich, eats that, decides he’s not actually too good for anything, and settles back down to watch another three episodes while going through an entire bottle of wine. When he can’t possibly watch one more episode without wanting to blow his brains out, he tries to read one of the three science fiction novels he brought with him. When he was younger, science fiction had been Bucky’s entire life. For a brief period of time, before acting became an option for him, Bucky had wanted to become either an astronaut or an alien or, preferably, both. But he hasn’t had time to read in years and he decides, eight episodes of Love Island later, that there’s no time like the present to rekindle a love for spaceships, artificial intelligence-enhanced overlords, and extraterrestrials.

He makes it fifteen pages in the first book and starts thinking about how he would act out the role of the lead alien rebel leader and puts it down. Frowning, he drinks more wine. Then he tries the second book, makes it twenty pages before drifting and puts it down too. The obvious solution is to drink more wine, so he does that. By now he’s well and fully disgusting, becoming a crisp himself, with a side of just drunk enough. After a while he gives up and takes Riley for a walk in the snow. The dog barks and runs around, playing in different snow drifts, and Bucky can almost, for a moment, forget that, actually, he’s really terrible at not working and, what’s more, he’s even more terrible at being all alone. He squats in the snow and starts making faces at the dog.

“Whoever blinks first loses,” Bucky says and blinks rapidly and then holds his eyes open, testing Riley.

Riley tilts his head, assessing. He doesn’t blink. He barks at him.

Bucky, somehow, loses.

Blinking the water out of his eyes, he makes another face at Riley and briefly considers a round two before running his hands over his face.

“I can’t do this,” he says. Natasha was right, although he would take that secret to the grave. Bucky couldn’t run away from his problems. He needed to get his shit together and go back to work. “C’mon, pup.”

He takes Riley back inside, dries him off, and then sets fresh food and water out for him. Then, Bucky goes upstairs and starts packing again.

  
By the time it’s well and truly dark outside, he’s finished repacking and is dragging his suitcase down the stairs. He makes it to the bottom when he hears someone knocking aggressively on the door.

“Hey!” a voice shouts. The shouting is accompanied by rapid knocking. “Hey, Sam! Sam!”

Bucky freezes, hoping the person, whoever it is, will go away. He doesn’t.

There’s more disruptive knocking and shouting (“ _Sam, it’s me! Open up!_ _C’mon man!_ ”) before the person stumbles and crashes into something with a curse.

“What the fuck,” Bucky swears and dashes to the door, forces it open, and looks out. “Hey, are you okay? You can’t just go knocking around like that--”

Bucky stops mid-sentence, because sprawled on his ass, looking up at him with glassy eyes and that same rosy, sheepish face, is Tall Blond Steve.

“Bucky?” Steve says, blinking in confusion.

“Steve?” Bucky asks incredulously. “Did you follow me here?”

“Follow?” Steve’s eyes widen. “No! No, my best friend lives here.”

“Your best friend?” Bucky frowns and offers a hand to help pull Steve up. “You know Loki? He’s your best friend?”

“Loki?” Steve frowns, but also smiles, confused, but grateful for Bucky’s help. The smell of alcohol is not light on his breath. “No, Loki hates me. Well, maybe not hate. He hates everybody. Okay, maybe not hate. Wait, did I say that already?”

“Geez, how drunk are you?” Bucky asks. “D’you wanna come in? It’s freezing.”

“That would--” Steve starts and stops, nodding, grateful again. Bucky gets the distinct impression that a drunk Steve might be a bit like a golden retriever.

Bucky opens the door, as though the cottage is his own, and Steve manages not to trip over the entranceway inside. He remembers to take his snowy shoes off, which Bucky notices with appreciation. Steve stops short in the foyer and swivels to look at Bucky.

“Wow,” he says. “We really didn’t make a good impression on you, did we?”

Bucky looks at him, confused, but then follows his eyes back to the luggage waiting, ready to leave.

“Oh,” Bucky says, with a faint flush. “No. I mean it’s great here. I just think I made a mistake. I’m not good at not working. Gonna just go back home and stay with a friend and work my way through--anyway, it wasn’t anyone here. Liverpool’s great.”

“Oh,” Steve says, because he’s drunk and that’s a lot to process. “I’m gonna--hold on. Hold on, please.”

Bucky just blinks as Steve kind of sways his way through the hallway to the bathroom.

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters then, quickly, dashes upstairs to make sure his hair looks nice and there aren’t obvious cheddar crisp stains on his shirt. By the time he comes back downstairs, Steve is squatting next to the tree, petting Riley.

“Hey, buddy,” he’s smiling down at the dog who’s excitedly licking at his hand. “I’ve missed you too.”

“So not Loki, I take it?” Bucky asks. And then, awkwardly. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Yeah, that’d be great, Buck,” Steve beams up at him and it’s so happy and drunkenly sincere that Bucky doesn’t even get a chance to blink at the sudden new nickname. “No, not Loki. Sam. He lives here too. He lives here more than Loki, really. He’s my best friend.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that,” Bucky says. He goes into the kitchen and starts preparing a mint tea for Steve.

“Loki is Sam’s roommate,” Steve says. He’s now fully settled on the floor, petting Riley, who’s crawled into his lap. “Sorry, his _flatmate_. Or I guess, Sam is Loki’s flatmate.”

“What the goddamned hell is a flatmate?” Bucky declares from the kitchen.

On the floor, Steve-- _giggles_. God, the man is such an endearing drunk, although, only having known him for a collective of maybe fifteen minutes, Bucky can’t be sure he isn’t just always like this.

“So what drove you to drink, Steve?” Bucky asks. He pours the hot water over the tea after the kettle starts to whistle and brings the mug to Steve.

“Nothing really,” Steve says. “Sometimes it’s just--nice. To not have responsibilities. To day drink a little, with the people at the pub. You know?”

“Usually I do all the day drinking by myself,” Bucky says, handing Steve the tea.

“Thanks,” Steve beams up at him again and if Bucky notices the way Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles or how their fingers brush, well who’s he gonna tell? “Sorry about this.”

“Tea’s not that hard to make,” Bucky says. He’s about to go settle on the couch, when Riley gets up from Steve and comes to his feet.

“Not the tea,” Steve says. “This. Whenever I’m here, Sam usually lets me stay. He didn’t tell me he was gonna be out. I should have texted him, maybe.”

“I think he’s out for the holidays,” Bucky says and decides to settle on the floor across from Steve because Riley, the fluffball, isn’t moving. “At least that’s what Loki said.”

“Loki,” Steve says. “How is he? Is he okay?”

“I--don’t know,” Bucky blinks. “I guess?”

“Oh good,” Steve says, drinking tea. “That’s good if he’s okay. I want him to be okay, you know, Buck?”

“Sure, Steve,” Bucky laughs and suddenly wishes he had more to drink. And, honestly, well, why the hell not. “Hey Steve. You mind getting more drunk?”

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Steve swears so loudly Bucky nearly jumps, but he’s grinning. “Thought you’d never ask! I mean mint tea, Buck? Really?”

“Well why didn’t you just ask for it in the first place?” Bucky mutters, getting to his feet.

“No one wants to come off as a drunk,” Steve calls after him.

“I literally met you at a pub, pal,” Bucky calls right back. “And now you’re drunk, under a tree, petting your sock.”

Steve stops petting what he clearly thought was Riley, but was, in fact, his sock. He blinks, slowly.

“Oh. I might...be drunk.”

“No!” Bucky snickers and grabs the bottle of chardonnay he bought, but no glasses. He opens it and is already a mouthful in when he gets back  to Steve and the tree. Riley follows behind and settles down on Steve’s lap again as Bucky sits.

“Now that’s a dog, Steve,” Bucky says, snickering again, and drinking straight from the bottle.

“Shut up, Buck,” Steve declares and pets Riley a bit more forcefully than he strictly needs to. Then he motions for the bottle. “Share!”

“Sure, what you need is more alcohol,” Bucky says with a grin, but hands it over.

“Sometimes,” Steve says, wisely, “you just need more alcohol.”

At least it sounds wise as he says it, all bright, eager blue eyes and solemn voice. Then he spills a bit of chardonnay on himself trying to drink and they both dissolve into helpless laughter.

“You’re a mess,” Bucky says. He shouldn’t feel comfortable saying it, given they’ve only just met, but there’s something about Steve. He doesn’t know Bucky and he doesn’t care. It’s comfortable. Relaxing.

“I am,” Steve agrees. He says it so easily, like it’s a matter of fact and not just a one off drunken joke, and Bucky has to stop and wonder at that, that someone can admit their life is a mess without falling apart because of it.

Steve is leaning back now, on his hands. His soft, peach sweater is riding up just a little for the effort and it isn’t as though Bucky hasn’t noticed before that it’s probably a size too small, but now, with that little sliver of skin peeking through, he certainly has the mental fortitude and opportunity to appreciate it.

“Jesus,” Bucky swears and takes the bottle back from Steve. Bucky’s not terrible to look at either, he knows this for a fact. He takes care of his hair and he goes to the gym at least once a day when he isn’t drowning his sorrows in chocolate and chips and he’s gotten at least three roles based on his blue eyes alone. But still, this Steve, he’s something else entirely, all thick muscle and a six pack that Bucky can literally see even through his _peach-colored sweater_. 

“So you’re leaving us?” Steve asks.

“I was thinkin’ about it,” Bucky says. He’s still thinking about it. There’s nothing for him here and he’s a workaholic, although he pretends not to be one.

“Got someone to get back to?” Steve asks, all innocent. “A special gal?”

“You are not slick, Steve--what’s your last name anyway?” Bucky squints at him.

“Rogers,” Steve laughs.

“Rogers,” Bucky says. “You are not slick, Rogers.”

That makes Steve laugh some more.

“Thought I was being real subtle, with the whole invisible woman thing,” he says.

“You’re about as subtle as a bulldozer,” Bucky says.

“You know,” Steve says, thoughtfully. “That’s not the first time someone’s told me that.”

Bucky’s not surprised. He smiles and takes the chardonnay back from Steve.

“I was going to buy you a drink,” Steve says. “Before you ran out.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. He looks down at the half empty bottle and the alcohol churns in his stomach at the memory. At the moment, he hadn’t been able to handle it, the gossip, the analysis of his person and love life. The fact that Dottie had apparently given an _interview_. He swallows and turns on his charm again, lazy and easy. “What if I wasn’t interested? Didn’t swing that way?”

Steve shrugs at that.

“Then you would have had an extra drink and I would have had nice company for an evening,” Steve says. “I’m not opposed to friends.”

“Hmm,” is all Bucky says and gives the bottle back to Steve. He considers him, beautiful, sloppy, happy Steve Rogers, on the floor, in front of a Christmas tree in a foreign cottage in a foreign country. No one here to stop him or to report him to TMZ or ask why he’s kissing a boy when he’s the most heterosexual heart throb to throb heterosexual teenage hearts since one of those Hanson brothers. His heart hammers a little with what he’s about to confess next.

Casually, he says, “Well, I do. Swing that way.”

Steve looks at him over the bottle with unconcealed interest.

“Interesting information there, Buck,” he says.

“I’m a treasure trove,” Bucky says, very very carefully.

Steve nods and for a lazy, long, tense moment, neither really do anything about it. Then, just as Bucky’s about to open his mouth again, Steve puts the bottle down. A thrill runs through Bucky’s stomach.

Steve crawls over to Bucky and, with some shuffling and effort, he straddles his lap, looking down at him. His eyes are bright and glossy and barely able to contain the hunger Bucky can almost _see_ , if not feel. Not that he can’t feel it too, as it were.

Bucky looks up at Steve, lazily, and Steve grins down at him, blond hair flopping into his eyes. He puts a hand on Bucky’s chest.

“I think,” he says, very slowly, “since you’re planning on leaving anyway.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks.

“And we’ll never see each other again,” Steve mutters.

“Uh huh?” Bucky watches him, closely.

“What we should do,” Steve says and leans down, leans in closer.

“Yes?” Bucky holds very, very still.

“Is,” Steve leans in very, very close.

“Mm?” Bucky’s barely breathing, his eyes wide, his pulse quickening.

“Raid Sam’s liquor cabinet,” Steve puffs out the words in Bucky’s face.

Bucky looks scandalized.

“Steve!”

Steve laughs and kisses him.

  
He twists his fingers into Steve’s hair, while his other hand splays across Steve’s lower back, holding him there, as they kiss. Steve is hard lines and eager, roaming lips and when Bucky inadvertently presses up into him, he’s met with even force, nothing soft or pliant at all. Steve catches Bucky’s tongue in his mouth and sucks on it, slips a hand under Bucky’s sweatshirt, and eases him down onto his back. Bucky’s hot all over and when Steve pulls back an inch, Bucky whines and chases after more. Steve chuckles into Bucky’s indignant kiss, at his earnest need for more than he’s being given. Bucky has half a mind to bite down on Steve’s lower lip and then he says fuck it, why not, because he’s hot and they’re both drunk, and what escapes Steve at the spark of pain is a pleased groan.

“I think we should have sex,” Steve says, his voice a low rumble against Bucky’s mouth and Bucky can’t quite help the responding noise that escapes him.

His hands find their way to the bottom of Steve’s stupidly soft sweater and he starts tugging it up, desperate to get to the skin and muscle underneath.

“Couldn’t agree more, Stevie,” Bucky says and soon Steve sits back on his heels to tug his sweater up and off, shivering slightly as the air hits his already overheated body, and Bucky’s left gaping at the most horribly perfect body he has ever seen on a human being. “Are you serious with all of that?”

Steve, adorably, turns scarlet.

Bucky sits up, indignant, and greedily pats his hands up and down Steve’s torso, testing out every dip and divot of muscle. Every place he presses is rock solid, no give at all. He looks up at Steve, angry.

“We can only have sex if we turn off every light and I’m wearing a bodysuit,” he says. “Or a onesie.”

“I don’t think that’s very practical, nerd,” Steve laughs and then he’s leaning forward again, mouth finding Bucky’s, fingers eagerly scrabbling at the bottom of Bucky’s sweatshirt.

“No!” Bucky says, pulling back. “You don’t get to see my flab! Not after all of this! You lied to me!”

“Lied?” Steve asks, stopping, but clearly amused. “How did I lie?”

“You insinuated you were a human and you’re clearly a genetically engineered super soldier or something,” Bucky gripes at him. Mind, his hands still haven’t stopped roaming Steve’s body. It’s important that he feel every single inch of this man. Every. Single. Inch. “It’s not right.”

“Well did you ask?” Steve asks, eyes glinting. “You can solve a lot just by asking, Buck.”

“Steve,” Bucky says.

“Yes?” Steve bites down on his already red lower lip, trying to hold back a smile.

“Are you a genetically engineered super soldier?”

“No, Bucky,” Steve laughs. “Not that I know of.”

“So you just look like that?” Bucky scowls. “All the damn time?”

“All the damn time,” Steve says, a pretty blush appearing again, as though it’s too much for him to be complimented on his stupid, horrible, perfect body.

“Jesus,” Bucky curses and then Steve’s had enough, he’s pulling Bucky’s sweatshirt up and over his head and kissing him again.

“Your flab’s not so bad,” Steve grins wickedly, patting the one soft spot on Bucky’s actually otherwise rather well-defined body--just a slightly soft belly, courtesy of an afternoon of junk food.

“Holy shit,” Bucky exclaims loudly. “You are the fucking worst, Rogers. You’re lucky you’re so hot and I’m going to ravage your stupid, perfect body.”

Steve laughs long and low and this time _Bucky’s_ had enough, he drags Steve back down to him. Steve’s mouth and tongue take all it want from Bucky’s and give just as much in return and it’s absurdly hot so, well, there’s not much room left to protest.

“Is that a yes?” Steve, hands pawing over him, halfway down to Bucky’s sweatpants, asks into the heat of their kiss.

“Yes, Jesus fucking Christ,” Bucky swears and then swears again when he feels Steve rumbling laugh against his throat. Steve starts leveling little bites into Bucky’s skin on his way down his throat and then down his chest and the swearing doesn’t stop until well after Steve’s moved down the entire length of his body.

  
And even then, it really only pauses. Because after catching his breath and coming down from his own high, Bucky hooks his ankles around the back of Steve’s calves and, manhandling the other man, pushes him over and onto his back. This time, Steve, now having lost all of his clothing too, is the one to arch and swear into the warm cottage air and it’s Bucky’s turn to suck little, lasting bruises into slopes of hard muscle and skin.

  
At some point, they must make it to the couch for a round, because when Bucky wakes up the next morning, the first thing he’s aware of is that he’s pressed back against cushions that don’t belong to a bed. The next thing that flickers into his awareness is that he’s also pressed against someone’s back. Someone’s thickly muscled, beautiful back. The muscles contract as Steve breathes in his sleep slowly, in and out, and Bucky’s still half-asleep, but mesmerized. He reaches forward to run a palm down Steve’s back and manages a single, unsatisfying touch when Steve snuffles and comes awake.

Bucky has the strong, distinct urge to lean forward and press a kiss to the space between Steve’s shoulder blades. Luckily, Bucky has enough wherewithal to stop himself creeping out a near total stranger like that.

Steve turns over onto his back, which traps and squashes Bucky against the back of the couch. They’re both fairly large men and no couch is quite _that_ big enough. Frankly, that they managed one night on it together at all is impressive.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, with a soft, happy smile, as though they’ve known each other for more than one night and one brief afternoon. Bucky’s not suicidal enough to give attention to the brief thought that passes through his head, that, somehow, he already feels like he’s known Steve longer than he’s known most of the people in his life. Steve looks at him like he’s never been so pleased to wake up to another person next to him before and it’s more than Bucky can actually bear.

“Hey,” Bucky says, instead.

“Thanks for last night,” Steve says.

Bucky raises an eyebrow and Steve blushes.

“I mean for letting me stay over.”

“Uh huh,” Bucky intones, but he has to physically resist the urge to lean forward and kiss him.

“Guess it’s pretty late,” Steve says with a yawn. “I’ll make some coffee and get out of your hair.”

“You could stay for breakfast,” Bucky blurts out before he realizes what he’s saying. Jesus fucking Christ, what an actual idiot he is.

Instead of being weirded out, Steve just grins.

“Yeah?”

“Guess you’ve earned your keep,” Bucky says, lips quirked up slightly, and this time the double-meaning is on purpose.

Steve blushes, but looks pleased nonetheless.

“Let me know if you decide you need a morning snack,” he says.

“Gross, Steve,” Bucky says, loudly, and Steve laughs. He leans forward, as though he’s going to kiss Bucky again and then catches himself and awkwardly jerks away, sitting up.

“Do you mind if I shower? I keep an extra set of clothes in Sam’s room.”

“Does Sam know you two’re dating?” Bucky asks, raising an eyebrow, as Steve gets up from the couch. The blanket they had been covered with, barely, slides off and there it is again, the beautiful expanse of back muscle, glowing softly in the mid-morning light. It is infuriating that Bucky isn’t touching it right this second.

“Sam is very happily dating a woman who could kick both of our asses,” Steve says. “I would eat my left arm before vexing Claire Temple.”

“Sounds like a weird kink, but you do you, Rogers,” Bucky says and Steve laughs again. Bucky does not not try to watch that ass as Steve hunts for his boxers and slides them on.

“Is arm eating a kink?” Steve frowns, picking up the rest of his clothes.

“Buddy, trust me,” Bucky says, shivering at the memory of a terrible documentary Natasha had made him watch one night, “you don’t wanna know.”

Steve doesn’t argue with that and within a minute, he’s bounding up the stairs, his clothes in hand. Bucky stretches his pleasantly sore muscles and, with a sigh, falls back onto the couch cushions again. Someone, Steve he suspects, had been polite enough to lay a sheet down over Sam and Loki’s couch before they’d gotten to work on it.

He runs a hand over his face and tries to take his life into account. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Bucky remembers that he still has to reschedule his flight, still has to leave, still has to go back to work and New York and face reality. Nothing has changed just because he had a great night of great sex with a great guy. He’s still Bucky Barnes, he’s still a celebrity, and he’s still deeply in the closet. Not to mention the other stuff, like how he’s apparently emotionally broken.

Still, even deeply closeted, emotionally broken, miserable celebrities deserve one good night to forget their troubles. And Bucky hadn’t just had a good night, he’d had a really, really great night. He smiles and gets up.

  
By the time Steve comes back down, Bucky’s changed into a clean pair of sweatpants and a comfortable t-shirt. He’s made the coffee and is busy making eggs and toast and using up what little bacon is left in Loki and Sam’s fridge. He’ll replace it before he leaves. Or substitute in some of those terrible prawn chips, just to make a statement. He hasn’t decided yet.

“Coffee!” Steve exclaims brightly and pours himself a mug. “The nectar of Gods.”

“Aren’t you supposed to hate coffee now?” Bucky asks as the bacon sizzles. “What with being a turncoat and all? I thought they only let you into this country if you agree to take tea in through an IV drip.”

“Yeah, it’s true,” Steve says solemnly while draining half his cup in two gulps. “It’s a process, though. The IV is for beginners, right after you move here. It’s a tough love kinda thing. They get you hooked through the IV and then your body gets so addicted to it, if you don’t drink tea once every two hours, you die.”

Bucky can’t help the amused grin that appears on his face as he slides the bacon off the pan and onto two plates that already have scrambled eggs and buttered toast on them.

“You seem pretty alive to me, Rogers.”

“Oh I don’t drink it anymore,” Steve answers. “I get my hit through pills now.”

“Tea pills?” Bucky raises an eyebrow, sliding Steve’s plate across the counter to him.

“Thanks,” Steve says, accepting the plate. “And you shouldn’t judge cultures you don’t understand so harshly. There’s no room for American exceptionalism in this kitchen.”

“You’re so weird it’s unbelievable that you look like that,” Bucky declares and Steve chuckles through a mouthful of toast.

Bucky takes his own, life-reviving gulp of coffee when something starts vibrating on the counter. He reaches immediately for the phone before realizing it’s not his own.

 _Sharon_ is what pops up on the phone, along with the picture of a beautiful, blonde woman.

Bucky looks at the phone, trying to blink away the sinking feeling in his stomach, before sliding it over to Steve.

“Sharon,” he says. “Sorry, it popped up.”

“No worries,” Steve says with a smile. “Give me a minute.”

Steve takes the phone and answers it, moving out through the kitchen to the backyard as he does so.

Bucky tries not to think about it, spearing pieces of bacon and chewing on it more forcefully than he needs to. Steve’s out there for five minutes, not that Bucky is counting _of course_ , and by the time he gets back in, his eggs are slightly cold.

“Everything okay?” Bucky asks, casually, drinking more coffee.

“Yeah, all good,” Steve says, but offers no more information before getting back to his breakfast.

He doesn’t have to offer any more information, of course, it’s not like he and Bucky really _know_ each other. Steve doesn’t give him any time to brood, anyway.

“So when’s the flight?” he asks, finishing off a piece of toast.

“Still need to reschedule it,” Bucky says. “Probably for tonight.”

“Oh,” Steve says and Bucky doesn’t want to read too much into it, but he seems a little disappointed. “Well.”

He hesitates. There’s a little crease that appears between Steve’s eyebrows when he’s thinking or worried or chewing something over. It makes him look even more serious than he usually looks, which is rather serious, except for when he’s being bright or happy or drunk. Bucky finds himself wondering about his story, about what could make someone who is so clearly full of life and laughter wear moments of gravity and sadness so heavily when he thinks no one is looking.

“Yeah?” Bucky nudges him. He eats another piece of bacon.

“I have to go back into town,” Steve says. “To take care of a few things. But, I’ll be back at that pub again this evening. They have an open mic night and there’s a singer who’s always there on Saturday nights. She’s lovely. I always try to see her when I’m here. And they have good food, too. For dinner.”

Steve swallows and looks a little embarrassed, but smiles at Bucky anyway.

“Just in case.”

The first thought Bucky has is that he hadn’t had a chance to notice, the night before, how beautiful and kind Steve’s eyes are. They’re the kind that can’t hide any real measure of feeling, good or bad. Steve is probably a rotten liar. And it’s clear he’s not lying here. Every line in his face reads a kind of childish hope and sincerity that makes Bucky feel a little weird. Not bad, just weird.

“I’ll probably be gone by then,” Bucky says, slowly.

The light doesn’t go out of Steve’s face, not really, but he does temper it a little. The smile he gives Bucky now doesn’t hold any expectation, just an open invitation.

“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But, just in case.”

Bucky nods. “Thanks.”

“Thanks for breakfast,” Steve says, finishing his eggs and coffee. He takes the plate to the sink and washes it off.

Bucky follows him to the door and Steve shrugs into his thick, puffy coat. His blond hair, still a little messy from the night before, glints golden in the morning sunlight as he opens the door. Bucky kind of desperately wants to kiss him again, but he doesn’t. What would be the point?

“Thanks again, for last night,” Steve says with a smile. “All parts of it.”

Bucky laughs.

“It was nice meeting you, Bucky,” Steve says and it occurs to Bucky he never gave Steve his last name. He doesn’t want him to know who he is, he supposes. He just wants this one thing, this one person, and that one night to be something only he, Bucky, and not he, Bucky Barnes, has for himself. “Have a safe flight.”

“It was nice meeting you, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says and he tries to ignore the dip in his stomach as he watches Steve leave.

  
Bucky calls the airline company, sitting on the couch, absentmindedly petting Riley. The dog nestles into his side. After their walk, Riley had followed Bucky around the cottage, being unusually quiet. He must sense abandonment coming soon, because he’s at once a little mad at Bucky and unwilling to leave his side.

He talks to a woman named Hope and is put on hold almost immediately. He’s put on hold just long enough to think.

  
There’s nothing really waiting for him back in New York City right now, is the truth.

There’s his job, which is currently on break, and interviews, which Natasha has been kind enough to postpone until January. There’s his cat, which is a factor, but who is currently being taken care of by Bucky’s ghost British host. There’s Natasha, his best friend and publicist, but who he has sometimes gone weeks without seeing and been perfectly fine for. Becca, in Long Island with her long-term boyfriend, has her own life, his parents, in Indiana, have their own lives. Everyone he knows has their own life except for Bucky. Bucky has become a commodity, a public figure for consumption, and somewhere along the way, he’s forgotten how to take something for himself. He’s learned how to be Bucky Barnes and forgotten how to just be Bucky.

Riley makes a snuffling noise and looks up at Bucky with large, brown eyes. They’re not kind, blue eyes, but they remind him of a certain golden retriever of a human anyway. For the first time in a very long time, Bucky’s stomach twists with something more than just obligation. It’s not desire, exactly. Maybe it’s curiosity. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s just a sense of adventure he had forgotten he had.

“Mr. Barnes?” Hope’s voice comes over the phone. “Sorry for the wait. Now, you wanted to change your flight to tonight?”

Bucky hangs up the phone. He gets up from the couch and grabs his coat.

  
It’s snowing gently, again, as he pulls up to the pub. The little village sparkles under the fresh snowfall, all twinkling lights and wreaths hung in front of every shop and house. Men and women move about outside, hand-in-hand, laughing, drunk on the holiday spirit.

Bucky pushes the door open to the pub and dusts snow out of his hair. Somewhere near the back of the long room, a woman’s lovely voice croons a song about lost love and found love into the warm, richly-scented pub air. At first, Bucky doesn’t see him and his stomach clenches, letting in room for nerves and doubt. Maybe this was a mistake.

Then, as Bucky looks around, a group of people shift and there, near the back of the room, sitting at a table for two, blond hair plastered to his head, face pink from cold air, is the person he’s looking for.

Bucky’s stomach flips a little as he crosses the space. He stops next to the table.

“This seat taken?” he asks and Steve looks up.

“Oh,” Steve says, almost breathlessly. “Bucky. You came.”

He beams.


	6. The Kid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh.” Thor looks slightly dumbfounded and Loki smirks a little as he walks into the smoothie shop. He’s never had time for men who were so invested in their own fragile masculinity that they couldn’t see the inherent social construction of gendering something as innocuous as adding color to nails.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Sixth Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, a Loki and a kid named Vali.
> 
> Wow, so great that both Loki and Bucky rhyme with me, it makes these notes easier. 
> 
> Also, I can't believe this is halfway through the fic! I'm still working on the last three chapters and they are massive and kind of draining me of my will to live, so be sure to yell at me to finish (I will finish, but yelling is appreciated). 
> 
> Thank you, as ever, for reading!

New York City during the holiday season is cold, but pleasurable. Loki spends his first few days just wandering around Manhattan, walking past decorated store windows, eating hot dogs and candied nuts from vendors, watching tourists bicker over which train to take, watching New Yorkers judge tourists bickering over which train to take, and spending more than a little time at the dog park in Washington Square Park, where, in Loki’s opinion, they are All Good Dogs. He astutely avoids Times Square and buys tickets to a movie playing at an independent theater about a young man falling in love with an older man, one summer in Italy, which he ends up enjoying quite a bit. After, he treats himself to a chocolate croissant and a cup of coffee. Loki hasn’t allowed himself a day to just relax and wander and do pointless, mindless activities in so long, he nearly forgets how pleasant life can be when it isn’t filled with deadlines for contract reviews and expert reports.

He does do research--he is an attorney, of course--into his ghost host and is a bit bemused and entertained to find that Bucky is no other than Bucky Barnes, a movie and television star of risen and still rising fame. It’s no less than what Loki really expected, but it puts everything in the apartment, and the drunken messages on the exchange website, into interesting perspective. Loki resolutely Does Not look up Thor, although it’s a strange enough name that he probably could find out more about the strange, hot blond who had turned up in the elevator that day if he absolutely wanted.

  
He’s coming back from yet another day at the dog park, when he sees someone waiting in the apartment lobby. It isn’t really the waiting that catches his eye, but the fact that this person is a little person and this little person looks perfectly miserable. Loki knows that look of misery quite well--he had worn it throughout the majority of his childhood.

The kid swings his legs back and forth, looking glum, dressed in a puffy blue coat, a red knit hat, and sneakers that Loki is positive light up. Loki’s seen this kid once or twice in the elevator in the past couple of days. He never looks anything other than sad and miserable. He’s maybe eight years old.

Now Loki isn’t a good Samaritan or even particularly fond of kids, but, well. He just knows that look too well. It’s the look of a child left waiting, always waiting.

He takes a detour.

“Aren’t there rules against this?” Loki asks, carefully sitting across from the kid.

“Huh?” the kid looks up, confused. He has bright green eyes, just like Loki’s.

“Being left alone,” Loki says, gesturing at the child. “By yourself. At an age where you clearly cannot take care of yourself.”

“I can take care of myself,” the kid says, gloomy and indignant. “I’m just waiting for my foster mom.”

Loki swallows. He can’t tell if what he’s feeling is revulsion, some post-traumatic re-traumatization as he remembers his childhood, or something else he hasn’t felt in a very long time, like empathy.

“Where is she?” he asks.

The kid hesitates.

“I’m not really supposed to say.”

“How long have you been waiting?” Loki asks.

The kid looks like he wants to answer, but knows he’ll get in trouble if he does. Loki knows that dilemma a little too well.

“Do you wish to wait with me? I believe you only live a floor or two down.”

“I’m not really supposed to leave the lobby, mister,” the kid says. He swings his legs back and forth rapidly. He’s teetering on the edge between what he wants and what will keep him from being sent back to the agency.

“Very well,” Loki says. “Enjoy your day.”

Loki gets up, straightens his jacket, and walks toward the elevator. He presses the button and waits.

He doesn’t wait long.

“Do you have a TV?” the kid asks, excitedly, running up beside him.

Loki clears his throat and hides a smile.

“I do seem to have one of those.”

  
The kid’s name is Vali and he’s shy and sweet and entirely too excitable once he’s actually coaxed out of his shell. He has bright, copper hair that’s completely messy once he takes off his hat, inquisitive, bright green eyes, and a gap on the bottom row of his teeth where one has recently fallen out. He’s actually ten years old. His foster mother is a wealthy and hard-working woman who works late hours in the entertainment industry, has no other children, and whose long-term partner left her the year before. Vali was placed with her six months ago and they’re still learning to like each other.

“She’s not so bad,” the kid says, chewing on a grilled cheese sandwich. Loki’s not a great cook, but he is competent enough to make a kid a grilled cheese sandwich.

“Does she hit you?” Loki asks, sharply. His jaw tenses, the phantom feeling of a palm across his cheek.

“What?” Vali looks at him with wide eyes. “No! She’s not evil, she just...forgets about me is all.”

Loki doesn’t particularly like that either, but at least she doesn’t hit the kid. He pushes a glass of milk toward him.   

“When does she get off work?”

“Depends on the day,” Vali says. He takes a mouthful of milk. “Usually she texts me so I know, but sometimes...she forgets. So I wait downstairs for her until she gets back.”

Loki frowns.

“She always apologizes!” Vali says earnestly.

Loki frowns some more.

“You’re new, right?” Vali changes the subject. He takes another bite of grilled cheese. He still looks hungry. Loki panics and starts making another grilled cheese. He has no idea how much children eat. “I’ve never seen you around before--well the past few days. There’s someone else who lives here usually. I think he’s famous. He always looks like he wants to fall off a building.”

Loki’s mouth quirks at that.

“I’m only here for a few weeks,” he says. “On vacation.”

“Oh,” Vali says. “So you’re gonna leave?”

“Eventually, yes,” Loki says. He flips the grilled cheese. Even from where he is, back turned, he can feel the disappointment roll off the child. It’s entirely too early for him to be getting attached to Loki, but Loki understands this too--a lonely child, used to instability, latching onto the first and only kind thing offered to him.

“Can I watch TV now?” Vali asks, finishing up his grilled cheese.

“Sure,” Loki says. “Wait, do you not want another one?”

Vali gives him a weird look.

“I’m ten years old,” he says, slowly. “I only have one stomach. But if you got cookies, I won’t say no.”

“I--” Loki opens and closes his mouth. “I’ll see what I can find.”

Vali beams at him, hops off the counter stool after wiping his hands on a napkin and draining his milk, and energetically hops toward the living room, Loki blinking, mystified, after him.

  
Loki finds a half-finished package of Chips Ahoy in one of the cabinets for the kid. He ends up eating the spare grilled cheese sandwich himself. He really needs to eat a vegetable soon and perhaps use the gym in this building. He can already feel the American fat gathering in his carefully-maintained, narrow waist and thighs.

He sits down on the couch next to Vali. The kid’s already managed to turn on the television. Loki thinks he’s going to be forced to watch cartoons, but Vali turns it to a channel playing some half-cartoon, half-live action movie.

“What’s this?” Loki asks, eyebrow raised. He thinks he recognizes one of the cartoon characters--some rabbit. Buggy? Bugger?

“Space Jam,” Vali says, giving Loki a look of pure astonishment. “Have you never seen Space Jam?”

“What on this godforsaken planet,” Loki says, swallowing a mouthful of cheese and bread, “is a Space Jam?”

Space Jam, it turns out, is a delightful movie about the power of cartoon characters and a basketball player to ward off aliens. Loki’s not entirely sure what the moral of the story is, other than it’s always better to have a professional basketball player on one’s side in an intergalactic sports game meant to decide the fate of a planet. Also something about friendship and teamwork? He’s not sure.

“Wasn’t that great?” Vali turns toward Loki, excitedly.

“That movie made no sense,” Loki informs him. Instead of deflating, the kid shakes his head.

“Maybe you just didn’t understand it,” he says.

“I am a highly-educated barrister,” Loki replies.

“A highly-educated barrister who doesn’t understand Space Jam,” Vali grins at him.

“What a stupid movie,” Loki says and finishes his grilled cheese sandwich. He carefully puts the plate to one side and wipes his hands on a paper towel. Then he turns back to Vali. “What else is on?”

  
Loki spends a strange, bizarrely enjoyable afternoon and evening watching movies with a ten year old who, he finds, is too excitable and too talkative, but curious, intelligent, and underratedly wise. Loki recognizes in Vali tendrils of who he used to be or, maybe, could have been. It both warms him and makes him feel a stab of melancholy.

They’re watching some movie called School of Rock, when Vali says, absentmindedly, “Wish I could play like that.”

“Do you play an instrument?” Loki asks.

“Yeah,” Vali says, watching Jack Black with something similar to hunger. “Kinda. I have a guitar. My dad gave it to me before he--” His facial expression flickers. “--before he died. But I don’t know how to play it.”

“Have you asked your foster mother for lessons?” Loki asks, watching Jack Black and Vali simultaneously.

“No,” Vali says. “Mrs. H already has enough going on. I don’t wanna bother her.” And then, quietly, “I don’t wanna get sent away again.”

Loki hates that. He hates that he can relate to it.

“Okay,” is all he says and they continue watching the movie until Vali gets a text message from his foster mother.

“Thanks for the grilled cheese, mister,” he says, grinning as he gets into the elevator.

“Loki,” Loki says.

“Mr. Loki,” Vali repeats and his face brightens, like Loki’s the best person he’s seen in a long time. It makes Loki pause and stare, long after the elevator door closes.

No one has looked at Loki like that in a very, very long time, like there’s something more to him than billable hours and sharp sarcasm or like he’s more than just a worker robot or a good fuck.

Loki thinks about Vali for a while after, about how eager he was, how lonely, how desperate to connect himself back to this one thing his father had left behind for him.

It had been a long time since Loki had allowed himself to pick up a guitar, not since he had to sell his, the one good thing he had had in his childhood, in order to pay for rent and food. But he remembers, once, before numbers and science and the law, when he had been wonderfully good at it.  
  
  
Okay, so in truth, Loki actually hates going to the gym. He has never had much girth or muscle mass; his entire life Loki has been all lean muscle and long lines. So he buys a month-long pass to an inordinately fancy gym called Equinox that offers a concerning number of classes and has one of the most satisfying sauna rooms he’s ever been in. He’s walking out of the gym after a yoga class, still in gym clothes, towel around his neck, about to go down the block to a juice and smoothie bar he discovered the day before, when he literally bumps into a massive wall of a person.

“Sorry,” he mutters as large hands wrap around his upper arms, stopping him from stumbling forward.

“Loki!” a delighted voice says, somewhere above him. Loki blinks in recognition as a familiar, infuriatingly happy, grizzled blond face comes into view.

“You,” Loki says.

“Thor,” Thor says. “Remember? Bucky’s friend? From the other day?”

“I know who you are, Thor,” Loki says, annoyed. What is it about this mammoth that instantly has him sniping at him? “Are you following me?”

“No, I swear!” Thor says. “This is a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” Loki says. He actually does, there’s no reason not to believe in them, but Thor makes him want to be contrary about everything.

“So it’s fate?” Thor says, smiling.

“I definitely don’t believe in fate,” Loki says. He adjusts his towel and nods at Thor. “If you will excuse me.”

“Hey, wait,” Thor says and this time he’s definitely following Loki.

“Yes?” Loki says, looking at sideways. “Do you have another book you need to steal from Bucky Barnes?”

“It was my book!” Thor protests. “But no, I was wondering what you were doing.”

“I am going to get a smoothie and then I am going to go to the penthouse apartment I am currently staying in and then I am going to do my nails,” Loki says, loftily.

“Your nails?” Thor raises an eyebrow.

“The paint is chipping,” Loki says and holds up his hands. Loki doesn’t usually keep his nails painted, certainly not while he’s at work, but it’s a nervous habit he developed as a teenager and never really shook off. Something about applying the color and later watching it dry soothes his anxiety. Also, he likes the way it looks.

“Oh.” Thor looks slightly dumbfounded and Loki smirks a little as he walks into the smoothie shop. He’s never had time for men who were so invested in their own fragile masculinity that they couldn’t see the inherent social construction of gendering something as innocuous as adding color to nails.

“Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asks Loki. He can tell the moment her eyes flicker from him to Thor, because her face lights up in a very obvious way. Loki somehow refrains from snorting.

He looks at the menu and picks the one that looks like the color green vomited the color green into existence.

“The green goddess, please,” he says.

“Anything for your friend?” the woman beams at Thor.

“He’s not my friend,” Loki says, at the same moment Thor comes up next to him and squints at the menu.

“What would be the most...normal color?” he asks.

The woman giggles.

“How about the tropical blend? It has mangoes.”

“Oh,” Thor says at her, cheerily. “I love mangoes.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Loki mutters under his breath.

The woman happily goes to make the two smoothies.

“Why do you paint your nails?” Thor asks, turning back to Loki.

“Because I wish to?” Loki raises an eyebrow at him. “Does it offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“No,” Thor laughs. “I’m just thinking. What color would look good on me?”

Loki blinks at him.

“Excuse me?”

“What color?” Thor holds up his hands, examining his nails. “I’m thinking red or blue.”

“You want to paint your nails?” Loki asks, confused.

“I want you to paint my nails,” Thor says with a grin. “Since you’re the expert and all.”

It’s Loki’s turn to look dumbfounded.

“Wait, did you just invite yourself--”

“Here you go,” the woman says with a smile. She’s made Thor’s smoothie first, of course. Thor takes it and winks at her. She blushes and goes back to work on Loki’s. The entire scene makes Loki want to vomit.

“Don’t you have something better to do?” Loki asks. “Anything better?”

“Sure I do,” Thor says. “Plenty.”

“Then--”

“But it’s my day off and I’m bored,” Thor says.

“Surely you have other friends,” Loki says. “Other people to do things with.”

“Sure do,” Thor says, beatifically, slurping on his smoothie.

“I do not understand,” Loki says, but he’s interrupted by the woman again.

“That will be $6.00,” she says to Loki.

“What about his?” Loki asks, sourly.

“On the house,” the woman says. If her smile grows any larger, it will certainly break her face.

“Here, let me pay for my friend,” Thor says, and takes out his wallet.

“You’re not my friend--” Loki hisses, but Thor’s already paid. It seems he’s paid extra, because the woman behind the counter is positively melting to the ground.

Thor grasps Loki’s upper arm again and guides him firmly out of the smoothie shop.

“That was a disgrace,” Loki declares, drinking his green smoothie angrily. It’s exactly what he asked for--so green that it might have created a new shade of green entirely. It’s horrifying. It’s the worst thing he’s ever put in his mouth. “Ugh!”

Thor laughs, a low, rumbly laugh that fills the air around them.

“Here, trade with me,” he says.

“No,” Loki says.

“Come on, your face is about to crumple under the weight of your disgust,” Thor says.

“ _No_ ,” Loki repeats and takes another sip. He honestly feels like he’s going to die, the drink is so atrocious.

“You are _turning_ green, Loki,” Thor says. “Please. I’m allergic to mangoes.”

“You are a horrible liar,” Loki says, but finally relents. He switches smoothies with Thor, mostly because he think might be developing an allergy to the color green with every mouthful. He takes a sip of the tropical mango smoothie and immediately his face smooths out. It’s sweet and tart and delicious. “Oh.”

Thor chuckles and drinks some of the green goddess. He doesn’t turn green, but there is a moment where his infuriatingly happy demeanor flickers.

“This is…” he tries to form words.

“An abomination unto mankind?” Loki offers.

“Something like that,” Thor laughs, but he continues drinking it.

Loki slurps at his mango smoothie happily as he walks back to the apartment building. Thor trails beside him.

“Are you not going to take no for an answer?” Loki raises an eyebrow. They push through the front door to the elevator.

“I told you,” Thor says, with a shrug. “I’m bored.”

“I am not pleasant company,” Loki warns. “In fact I am told quite often that I am, arguably, some of the worst and most unpleasant company one can manage to keep.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Thor says, frowning.

Loki jabs at the elevator button.

“You don’t know me,” he says. “It is just right, in fact.”

“I’d like to get to,” Thor says, sincerely. He drains half of the green monstrosity to show his sincerity. “If you’d let me.”

Loki doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

  
Loki showers and changes, all the while deeply aware that Thor is waiting for him in Bucky Barnes’s living room. He’s still unclear what the big blond is doing or why. He doesn’t exactly scream queer to Loki and Loki knows better than to think his personality is such a draw that he would magnetically draw in some terribly chipper Australian-American musician. He must be angling for something, but Loki can’t imagine what. He doesn’t have anything to give but a tin of his favorite biscuits he’d brought with him from the UK.

He emerges from the loft in a pair of nicely tailored black jeans and his favorite sweater, a soft, fitted thing with a cowl neck, in a green that brings out his eyes. He runs his fingers through wet strands of his long, jet black hair. Thor is looking through another coffee table book on the couch and talking to Tom when he hears Loki coming down the stairs. He looks up and blinks, does a double take that Loki can actually see. Loki tries not to smirk.

“You’re still here,” Loki says.

“Come out with me,” Thor says, his eyes not leaving Loki. “You’re new here. Let me show you around.”

“I have shown myself around,” Loki says. “I have found the dog park to be most agreeable.”

“You like animals?” Thor suddenly grins.

“Yes,” Loki’s confident smirk flickers. “Who doesn’t like animals?”

“Come on,” Thor says, getting up and putting his coat on again. “Let’s go.”

“Go?” Loki blinks. Thor hands Loki his coat. “Go where?”

“Come _on_ , Loki,” Thor insists. “Stop asking questions. Live a little.”

Loki has no desire to Live A Little, but Thor leaves him no choice, again, fusses Loki into putting his coat on and shepherds him into the elevator and down the apartment building.

They’re about to leave when Loki hears a small voice from the lobby couch.

“Mr. Loki!”

Loki and Thor turn around and Vali’s sitting in his usual seat, playing on his phone.

“Hi, Vali,” Loki says with a small smile.

“You going somewhere? Who’s your friend?”

“He’s not my fr--” Loki starts, but Thor beams instead.

“I’m Thor!”

“Nice to meet you, Thor!” Vali says. “Are you and Mr. Loki going somewhere?”

“Yes,” Thor says.

“Where?”

“It’s a secret,” Thor says and raises a finger to his lips. Thor must know exactly what those words do to little kids, because Vali’s eyes widen in excitement. “Would you like to come?”

“Oh,” Vali says, deflating. “No. My foster mother’s coming home now.”

Thor’s eyes flicker down to Loki at that and Loki ignores the way his stomach clenches, the way it always does when Vali mentions his foster mother.

“Be good, Vali,” Loki says.

“Okay, Mr. Loki,” Vali smiles at him. “Make sure he has fun, Mr. Thor! Mr. Loki’s a nice one, but he’s always frowning.”

“I am not always frowning,” Loki frowns, grumbling, as Thor maneuvers him out of the apartment lobby. Next to him, the blond giant looks as though Christmas has come early.

“Who’s the kid?” Thor asks.

“He lives in the building,” Loki says. “Where are we going, you oaf?”

“He likes you,” Thor says, smiling. “Says you’re a nice one.”

“I am not a nice one,” Loki glowers again.

“I don’t know, Loki,” Thor says. “That’s two against one. The odds are against you.”

“You don’t. Even. Know me,” Loki grits out.

“I have good instincts,” Thor says and taps his index finger to his temple. How can one man be so assured in every single thing he does? It is incredible. Probably not in a good way. Loki has a distant urge to stab him. “Come on.”

  
Thor does the worst thing possible--he brings Loki to a pet shop. Loki is unsure how to feel about this at first, mostly because all of the animals are so small and cute he feels a distinct urge to die, but also because Thor has gone straight to the heart of his weakness within a day of meeting him. It’s a cute little pet shop in Greenwich Village, with tiny puppies playing together in the shop window. Loki doesn’t even think he’s going to make it inside, he’s so enchanted by the puppies running around outside.

“There’s more inside,” Thor says with a grin and Loki lets himself be dragged away from the front and this is where the urge to die washes over him, fresh, because inside the small store is an entire glass case row of different puppies, tiny puppies, all with friends. Some are sleeping, some are yapping at each other, some are running around in circles, and some are just chewing on their tails.

“No,” Loki says. “This is too much. We have to leave immediately.”

Thor laughs.

They end up looking at the puppies for the better part of an hour. There’s a tiny black Labrador that Loki is almost certain he is in love with. He loves the others too, but this one keeps coming back to him, a tiny, black thing with a tiny, pink tongue.

“He is just so small,” Loki breathes out, tapping the glass. The black lab toddles forward, barks at Loki with a noise that would not be out of place inside a squeeze toy. “Can you believe anything can be so small?”

“When I was a kid, we had three huge dogs,” Thor says. He’s actually taken in by one of the older dogs in the case, a dark-colored cocker spaniel with too-large ears. “One for each of the boys.”

“You have brothers?” Loki asks. He presses a palm to the glass. The black lab licks it.

“Yeah, Hermod and Vidar. Mother said we could have one dog, so naturally, we drove her crazy until we each got one,” Thor grins at Loki. Loki can imagine it, briefly, a younger Thor, just as bull-headed, just as charming, using both qualities to get exactly what he wants, which isn’t so much a bad thing, but is annoying in the process.

“I always wanted a brother,” Loki says, absently.

“Do you have any siblings?” Thor asks and Loki tenses.

“No,” he says, briefly. “None.”

Thor must sense that he’s broached a dangerous subject, because he doesn’t press it further. Instead, he turns to the pet shop employee.

“Excuse me,” he says. “Can we play with them?”

Okay, no, _this_ is the worst thing Thor could have done.

  
He and Thor sit in a penned in area, Thor with the cocker spaniel on his lap and Loki with the black lab in one hand and a french bulldog with enormous ears in the other. He picks up a small ball and gently rolls it to the other side of the pen and the two puppies bark and tumble out of his arms, chasing after it.

“Well now look what you have done,” Loki glares at Thor. “What am I supposed to do when I cannot take him home?”

“You can come back and visit him?” Thor suggests.

“No,” Loki says. “I must take him home or I will die.”

That makes Thor laugh, loudly. The cocker spaniel startles on his lap at the noise, but Thor just strokes her head until she settles again.

“What happened?” Loki says, once the puppies come back to him. He rolls the ball again, gently, and they go off after it again. “To your dogs?”

“Mimir was Hermod’s, he died when we were all in high school,” Thor says. “Cancer. Bor and Gaea are still alive. They live with our parents at their ranch house.”

“Which one was yours?” Loki asks. The black lab comes back to him and Loki lifts him up. He starts licking Loki’s nose and Loki laughs, despite himself. It is love at first lick. If only he could stay here forever, with this tiny, new friend.

“Gaea,” Thor says. He’s smiling down at the dog in his lap. “She’s a husky. I miss her.”

“Well maybe you should find yourself a new friend,” Loki says, wryly. “Since you have so much free time on your hand.”

Thor laughs.

“Perhaps you are right. What do you think, girl? Do you wish for a new home?” he looks into the cocker spaniel’s eyes. She tilts her head in assent. “All right. Let’s do it.”

“Wait,” Loki says, blinking. “Are you serious?”

“Yes, sure,” Thor says. “Why not?”

“You have to plan.” Loki stares at him. “You need to know how to take care of her and if you are able to take care of her. You must buy things. You cannot just do these things unprompted.”

“And why not?” Thor challenges. He gets up. “I would like to purchase her, please!”

The dog barks and the employee beams and Loki looks at them all, mystified.

  
A half an hour later, Thor and Loki walk out of the pet shop with Hela.

“She looks nothing like a Hela,” Loki says, looking down at the dog.

“What? Of course she does,” Thor says, also looking down at his dog.

“Isn’t Hela the goddess of death?” Loki asks, blinking at the dog. The dog blinks back at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Thor says. “She is obviously the goddess of cute.”

“I’m ridiculous?” Loki asks. “You walked into a pet shop and walked out with a pet.”

“Yes, Loki,” Thor’s deep voice fills the air between them. “That is traditionally what one goes to a pet shop for.”

“I need you to leave,” Loki says. “For my own sanity.”

“That is not the first time you have said that to me,” Thor says, but he looks amused.

“And I have meant it,” Loki says, “every single time.”

  
Thor does actually have to go back home to settle Hela down with her things, but before he goes he stops Loki.

“I’m having a game night at my place, Friday night. It’s just me and a few friends. Will you come? It will be fun.”

“I am allergic to fun,” Loki says. But then he looks at Thor, with his dumb face and his dumb new dog and he sighs. “I will give you my number and you can send me details. I promise nothing.”

Thor looks so pleased with this turn of events that Loki almost rescinds the offer. He gives Thor his number anyway and Thor and dog both finally walk away, whistling happily.

“I did not come to this country to make friends,” Loki says, scowling out loud to the night sky around him. “I hate people. Especially happy ones.”

It’s not that Thor was an exception to his rule or anything so cliche. It’s really just that Thor does not take no for an answer and in the face of such unmoving, stubborn willpower, Loki has no idea what to do. So he plans to go back to the penthouse and plan another day of lazy adventuring, but even he knows, somewhere deep inside, that he will probably end up at this terrible game night.

  
When he walks into the lobby, Vali is still there.

“Where is your foster mother?” Loki demands.

“She’s here, I swear!” Vali looks like he’s just been caught red-handed in the cookie jar. “She just went up to get her purse!”

“Uh huh,” Loki says and levels him with a look that says he just does not believe him.

“Goodnight, Mr. Loki!” Vali calls as the elevator door shuts.

  
Fresh from a strangely pleasant day, his guard down, puppies and blond giants on his mind, Loki makes the mistake he swore he wouldn’t make.

He turns on his phone. Immediately, it flashes with unread messages. The first is fine.

 **Bucky Barnes:** Got to the cottage all right, thanks again. We’ll get in touch later? Riley’s good, we’re best friends already. Don’t forget Tom’s roast chicken! Thanks!

The second is okay too.

 **Sam Wilson:** Hey, can you give me the guy’s phone number? I wanna check up on Riley. Hope the U.S. is treating you right, man. I know you’re allergic to saturated fats or whatever, but seriously, don’t forget to try Shake Shack.

It’s the third that makes his heart stop.

 **Baldur:** Haven’t heard from you in ages.  
**Baldur:** Has it really only been a week? Feels like a lifetime.  
**Baldur:** Really missing you over here, Lo.  
**Baldur:** Will you be available for a ring later? Just miss hearing your voice.

  
It is as if he knows exactly when to time the destruction of Loki’s heart. Loki’s started his phone for the first time in days and, as though he can tell this, across an ocean, that Loki’s heart is sinking straight through his chest and into his toes, his phone rings. Baldur’s face pops up, pale blond and certain and beautiful. Loki hasn’t seen that face in a week. Has tried actively not to think about that face in a week.

He answers, because he can’t stop himself from making a bad decision when it’s given to him so freely to take.

“Baldur,” he says. Even to him, his voice sounds hollow.

“Loki!” Baldur’s voice, on the other hand, is loud, happy. “You picked up. You’ve disappeared over there, I’ve been going mad without you. Are you American now? Do you have an accent? Tell me everything!”

And because Loki is weak, because he has been head-over-heels in love with this man for the past three years, because he’s heartsick with the weight of it all, he answers.

He answers every question Baldur asks and asks questions in return. He talks to him as he undresses, talks to him as he dresses, talks to him as he gets into bed.

They talk for two hours, until Loki’s voice is hoarse and he’s nearly delirious from laughing. This feels good. Baldur _makes_ him feel good.

“Say, Loki, I’m having difficulty with a patent I’m looking at. You know I don’t have the head for these things. I’m all persuasion and litigation, not technical details. Can I send it to you? Will you take a look for me?” Baldur asks. “You know you’re a genius at these things.”

And Loki is flattered, despite himself. Flattered that Baldur would think he’s brilliant, flattered that Baldur would come to him, when he could have gone to anyone else.

“Of course, Baldur,” Loki says softly. “Send it my way.”

“I’m going to send you a physical copy. I don’t know what your printer situation is like over there and I know you like to mark it up in person,” he says. “Where are you staying?”

Loki gives him the address.

“Thanks. God, I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lo,” Baldur says. “Really, you’re just a lifesaver. You save my life every time.”

“Of course,” Loki says, chest full, warm, fever, all of it. Every single damn part of it. “Anything for you.”

There’s maybe a fractional pause, awkward in its sincerity, in all that Loki means. But then Baldur laughs.

“You’re just the best, Lo. You have a good time, okay? We’ll talk again soon.”

“Yes,” Loki says. “Talk again soon.”

  
Baldur hangs up and Loki--Loki stares at the phone. He’s half-shell-shocked, half-elated. Half-loathing himself and half-happy beyond words. That Baldur would remember him. That they can still talk for so long.

He knows Baldur is engaged, he knows Nanna is pregnant. And that makes him want to cry. But he also knows that he can offer Baldur what Nanna can’t, what she can never give him--his unique brand of companionship, his mind. It may not be enough, but it is something and he is not above using it, not above making himself indispensable to the man he loves, even if it makes him a terrible person.

Loki is altogether happy and disgusted and flattered and sick to his stomach as he turns off the light. He pulls the comforter over his head, trying to disappear into the warmth and softness of the dark, trying to ignore the heavy, sticky, sinking feeling in his chest. Sometimes he can’t breathe, from the weight of it all.

  
He falls into a fitful sleep not soon after, so he doesn’t see when his phone lights up, a text from Thor, with a smiley face and his address.


	7. The Artist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As subtle as a bulldozer, Rogers,” he says.
> 
> Steve’s grinning. Bucky can almost see it over the phone.
> 
> “I’ll come pick you up?”
> 
> “Sure,” Bucky says. “Let me just get dressed.”
> 
> “Oh there’s no need for that--” Steve says, teasingly, and Bucky shouts “ _Not subtle!_ ” into his phone before hanging up, with a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Seventh Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me a lot of flirty banter between Steve and Bucky!
> 
> This chapter is pure, unadulterated fluff. Enjoy!
> 
> #YNWA

Bucky wakes up the next morning with a rare smile on his face. He tries not to replay the night before in his head more than once, but an hour after he’s woken up, he’s still lying in bed, staring goofily at the ceiling, Riley nudging his rib in an effort to encourage companionship and maybe some food.

“Okay, okay,” Bucky says, laughing. He rubs his hand over Riley’s nose and shoves playfully at his shoulder, which only makes the dog bark once in protest and then lick at his fingers. Bucky smiles, gives that cold, wet nose a kiss, and pushes himself to his feet. He winces at the pain that shoots through them and he can vividly remember Steve’s pink, drunken face, laughing apologetically as he stepped on Bucky’s toes. 

  
It had been Steve’s idea, after a few beers and something called a boilermaker, when his eyes had been particularly bright and the music around them had picked up.

“Do you dance?” Steve had asked him, leaning in, excitement written clearly on his face.

“I took classes in high school,” Bucky said, verbalizing something he had never admitted to anyone before, not even Maria. “My friend Nat, she did ballet her entire life and she needed a partner and I was tall enough.”

Steve had stopped at that, blinking at him.

“You’re a ballerina?”

“I _took_ ballet!” Bucky said, flushing. “I wasn’t a ballerina.”

What he hadn’t said was that he had actually been good enough to try out for a dance company. He had gotten a small, supporting role in Black Swan because of it, although that was early enough in his career that no one really remembered him for it.

“Were you any good?” Steve asked, with a knowing smile.

“Nah,” Bucky’s answer had been noncommittal enough that Steve had laughed, then pushed himself up from the table.

“Well I’m terrible at it,” Steve said, offering Bucky a hand.

“That’s one way to ask a guy to dance,” Bucky had muttered, but taken his hand. Steve’s hand was large and dry, wonderfully firm, just like the rest of him. Steve had pulled him close, flush against him, all pink and beaming, and Bucky hadn’t really had the heart to protest.

  
His feet did after a while, though. By the end of the night, they were well and truly trodden on and he and Steve were well and truly laughing, flushed with warmth and alcohol, lazily spinning to something soft and gauzy in the background. He couldn’t quite deny that it felt good, to feel Steve’s hands on his back, to feel his breath skim his cheek, to be held this close to someone at all. Bucky had looked up, at the end of the night, at the two inches that Steve Rogers had over him and Steve’s golden hair had flopped into his face. Bucky pushed it away, hand in soft, floppy, blond hair, then leaned up to kiss him.

It was the closest to happiness Bucky had allowed himself to feel in years.

  
His phones rings as he brings Riley back inside and the dog barks at it happily, although it’s nothing compared to the grin on Bucky’s face as Steve’s face pops up onto the screen. He barely remembers taking the picture, let alone setting it as Steve’s contact, a silly thing where Steve is going cross-eyed from laughter, a little Santa hat on his head that Bucky briefly remembers the bartender handing to them.

“You gonna pay for my podiatrist?” Bucky asks, immediately after pressing accept.

“You gonna pay for my new liver?” Steve returns.

“No one told you to take that last shot of whiskey, Rogers.” Bucky’s grinning as he bends to put more food into Riley’s bowl.

“You did,” Steve sounds indignant. “You literally told me to take the last shot of whiskey.”

“No, I _dared_ you to take the last shot of whiskey,” Bucky laughs. “Whose fault is it that you can’t back down from a challenge?”

“Ma Rogers, may her soul rest in peace,” Steve says. Bucky frowns at that, but Steve moves on quickly. “She had a shy kid who refused to do anything unless he was dared to do it.”

“You’re kidding,” Bucky snorts. “You, shy? I can’t imagine it.”

“Childhood was a weird time for me,” Steve says. Bucky can see the soft smile behind the words, the softening around his eyes, the upturned corners of his lips. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks casually. “When might that be?”

“I got some free time today. Guess I could fit you in,” Steve says, equally casually.

Bucky barks out laughter.

“As subtle as a bulldozer, Rogers,” he says.

Steve’s grinning. Bucky can almost see it over the phone.

“I’ll come pick you up?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Let me just get dressed.”

“Oh there’s no need for that--” Steve says, teasingly, and Bucky shouts “ _Not subtle!_ ” into his phone before hanging up, with a laugh.

  
Steve drives up to the cottage in a blue VW bug, at least three decades old, that barely fits him. Bucky, dressed in a puffy coat and a thick scarf that vaguely muffles his voice, opens the passenger door and stares at him.

“Are you _shitting_ me?”

“It was a hand me down?” Steve offers.

“There’s no way both of us are gonna fit in this box,” Bucky looks at the car incredulously.

“Sure we are,” Steve says. “Just pulls your knees up to your eyeballs. Easy.”

“You are _so fucking weird_ ,” Bucky exclaims and Steve brightens, as though that’s the most delightful thing he’s heard all day. He somehow manages to get in and puts on his seat belt while Steve looks over at him with a grin.

“I should ask if there’s anything you had in mind before I kidnap you for the day.”

“I never say no to food,” Bucky says. “And I wouldn’t hate the Beatles museum.”

“You fucking nerd,” Steve laughs.

“Shut up, you’re driving a car you don’t even fit into,” Bucky grumbles as Steve pulls out onto the road. “Maybe a bookstore, I gotta get Nat something for Christmas.”

“Who’s Nat?” Steve asks.

“My best friend,” Bucky says and _almost_ says ‘publicist’ before he catches himself.

“I can do that,” Steve says. “Any deal breakers?”

“No salads,” Bucky gripes. “Fucking hate a salad. Nowhere with TVs. And no weird sex clubs.”

Steve raises an eyebrow.

“You look like an All-American golden boy, which is why I _know_ you’re into weird shit,” Bucky says and Steve laughs. Bucky notes that Steve doesn’t outright _deny_ it.

“Why no TVs?” Steve asks instead.

Bucky tries to hide how noncommittal his answer really is, although it’s probably written clear across his face.

“Nothing good on these days,” is all he says. Steve doesn’t push it any further.

  
They drive in good humor, Bucky fiddling with the radio dials until Steve presses the CD option.

“CDs,” Bucky wonders, aloud. “You living in the 90s still?”

“God I wish,” Steve says. “Remember the fashion in the 90s? Awful. I miss baggy jeans.”

“You do not,” Bucky says.

“I do,” Steve grins, pulling left at a light. “Baggy jeans, baggy shirts, backwards caps for no reason? What’s not to miss?”

Bucky looks over at him. Steve’s not wearing his puffy coat today, wearing just a normal Canada Goose coat instead, with a plaid scarf folded neatly around his neck. His hair is combed neatly over, like the fucking nerd he is.

“You wore khakis and plaid button ups, _I feel it_ ,” Bucky says.

“There is nothing wrong with khakis and plaid button ups!” Steve protests and Bucky snickers into his own scarf before Steve reaches over and shoves him.

“You’re so lame,” he says, but he settles back against his seat with a fond smile as Sinatra floods the car.

“Can’t believe I invited the fashion police into my car,” Steve mutters. He squints into the weak Liverpool sun and turns into a little cobbled path by the water.

He parks outside a pub next to the Beatles museum, which Bucky tries really hard not to look too excited about and fails miserably if Steve’s face is anything to go by.

“Food first?” Steve asks.

Bucky’s stomach rumbles in response.

  
The pub is nothing like the one they met at. It’s large and airy, light streaming down from a glass roof overhead. The ceiling is strung with Christmas lights and baubles and a Christmas tree sits in the corner, decorated in ornaments that Bucky, upon squinting closer, realizes is all soccer-related. There are huge TV screens everywhere and Bucky gives Steve a look.

“They’re just playing the Arsenal game,” Steve says, apologetically. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

Bucky figures sports are fine, so he shakes his head, although it leaves him feeling slightly nervous anyway. He tries to sit with his back to the nearest screen. He can hear people cursing about some play or another and that, at least, makes him smile.

“So, Steve,” Bucky says, as soon as they’ve settled down.

“So, Buck,” Steve says, lifting his own menu.

“What do you do?” he peers at him.

“Oh,” Steve sets his menu down and looks back. “I’m uh, well I own an art gallery.”

Bucky--wasn’t expecting that. He blinks at him, Steve Rogers, all 200 lbs of enormous, well-defined muscle. He can’t imagine him around art.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t look it, I know,” Steve says, his cheeks glowing pink. “Well, I don’t now. You shoulda seen me as a kid.”

“Why, what’d you look like as a kid?” The waitress brings waters for the table and Bucky thanks her. He tries to imagine Steve Rogers as a child and basically just imagines 200 lbs of muscle on a shorter body.

“Hey, fish and chips okay?” Steve asks, looking at him. “They have the best in the city.”

Bucky nods and Steve orders for them.

“Imagine me, but a third of my size,” Steve answers when the waitress leaves.

Bucky squints and tries to. He can’t. Steve Rogers is enormous.

“I was a skinny, scrawny, asthmatic kid,” Steve says. “Skin and bones. I didn’t exactly fill out in high school, but I looked like every other art kid. Weird clothes and paint permanently staining my fingers and hair.”

“You draw too?” Bucky asks.

“On occasion,” Steve says, mouth quirking at the corners. That’s code for _yes_ , which Bucky knows entirely too well. Bucky hasn’t met too many artists, but he’s an actor. He can read creative types like a familiar old script.

“How long you been drawing?” Bucky asks.

“Since I was a kid,” Steve says with a smile. “They put me in art therapy when I was in kindergarten and it was all downhill from there. At least for my mom’s walls.”

“What’s your medium?”

“Sometimes charcoal, mostly paint.”

“Did you go to school for art?”

Steve raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Art school in Chicago.”

“A degree in art...galleries?”

“Fine arts,” Steve laughs. “Emphasis on painting.”

“What do you paint?” Bucky asks, taking a sip of his water.

“People, mostly,” Steve says. “Landscapes, sometimes, but I like the motion of people. I like capturing their faces, painting their language in my own language. Everyone has a different story to tell, it’s a matter of finding that moment they’re telling it. It’s never obvious, you have to wait for it and then when the lighting is right and the moment is right--it’s magic.”

The light in Steve’s eyes is something Bucky recognizes distantly, a love for something so overwhelming and intuitive that it’s difficult to capture in words. Bucky had that once. People would ask him why he acted and he would fumble over words to explain it to them, how it made him feel, to tell someone else’s story and become that person in the process. His chest flutters a little, a phantom memory of a fading passion.

“Did you always want to be a gallery owner?” he asks after a second.

Steve rests his elbow on the table and leans forward, almost amused.

“I always wanted to be an artist. This was just a more practical choice.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. Very much.”

“When did you open up your gallery?”

“Two years ago.”

“Where’s your gallery?”

“A town just outside of Liverpool. It’s a thirty minute drive.” Steve’s face is very, very serious, but his eyes are very, very amused. Bucky has no idea why. He’s leaning forward too, though.

“Is it hard to open a gallery?” Bucky asks.

“Yes,” Steve answers.

“Do you get a lotta commissions?”

“Sometimes,” Steve says. “Depends on the month.”

“When’s the last time you finished a painting?”

“Last month.”

“And is this what you wanna do for the rest of your life?”

At that, Steve bursts out laughing.

“Do you want to see my CV or my LinkedIn page? I could send you a personal statement if that helps. Maybe my portfolio?”

Bucky, who’s been leaning so forward that he’s nearly halfway across the table, blinks and slides back with a sheepish smile.

“Sorry. I’ve never really met an artist before.”

“I hope I’m not a disappointment,” Steve smiles.

“No,” Bucky shakes his head, maybe too eager.

“What do you do?” Steve says, chuckling.

The waitress brings their fish and chips and interrupts, timing mercifully helpful. Bucky stuffs the fries into his mouth and avoids answering. Because Steve is remarkably intuitive, he just raises an eyebrow.

“I act,” Bucky mumbles with a sigh. He trains his eyes on his fried fish. If and when Steve recognizes him, he doesn’t want to see it. Maybe Steve hasn’t heard the rumors or seen Dottie’s interview, but he can put two and two together and what Bucky wants is--just a chance to be someone else, just for a little while. Not someone written for him, by someone else, but someone gets to write and choose to be. A character of his own. Himself.

“Yeah?” No recognition flickers across Steve’s face. Instead, he eats a fry and looks at Bucky with interest. “Anything I’ve seen?”

“Theater,” Bucky says. It’s a white lie because Bucky hasn’t acted in theater in a long time, not since far before the rash of movies that lifted him to Howling Commandos fame. But he did, once.

He feels a pang as he says it anyway, not out of guilt, but out of a distant longing. Bucky had spent his adolescence in the theater. It’s where he felt the most accepted, the most like himself. He misses the calm, darkness backstage, the rush to remember lines before his cue, the quiet behind the curtains as he’s waiting his turn. He misses having an audience, real people to connect with and make laugh or cry or just hold their breaths. Bucky misses the theater like a missing limb, a longing he hasn’t thought of until now.

“Oh,” Steve says. Bucky looks up expecting skepticism or disappointment, but what he finds instead is a kind of eagerness. “Really? I love going to the theater. I used to go all the time with my--” His expression flickers for a moment, but he recovers just as quickly. “--an old friend. I haven’t been in a while.”

“Do you have a favorite?” Bucky asks. He takes a bite of his fish and--shit. Steve was right. It’s just crispy enough, the batter flavorful, the fish juicy underneath. It’s incredible. He stuffs half of it into his mouth.

“Don’t laugh,” Steve warns.

“I’m gonna laugh,” Bucky says, swallowing. And then he chides himself. “Wait, no I won’t. Sorry. Reflex.”

Steve chuckles.

“I--” He looks down at his fries and then looks back up at Bucky with a pained, resigned sigh. “My Fair Lady.”

Bucky stops, mid-chew.

“Are you serious?”

“Don’t laugh!” Steve says, even though he’s laughing himself. “I know it’s unconventional for a guy or whatever, but I think it’s a sweet story. Ma loved Audrey Hepburn. I grew up watching all of her movies.”

Bucky can’t quite look up at that, his heart lurching weirdly in his chest. He remembers as a kid, one of his first memories, sneaking into his mother’s lap while she watched a beautiful brunette with wide eyes and delicate features and a lovely voice on their small television. Roman Holiday had been Bucky’s very first movie. It remains one of his very favorite movies. He watches it every Christmas, just him, Tom, Audrey Hepburn, and Gregory Peck.

“Why My Fair Lady?” Bucky asks instead. If his voice is a little thick, he manages to cover it with a swallow of water.

“It’s the first one I watched,” Steve says, truthfully. “But I guess, I also related to it. I was a sick kid. An outsider. Guess I always wished someone would fix me and one day I’d magically fit in.”

“You don’t fit in much anywhere, pal,” Bucky says, raising an eyebrow and eyeing Steve’s pecs.

Steve laughs at that.

“My friend,” he says, softly, after a moment. “The one I used to go to the theater with. It was her favorite too. We saw My Fair Lady the first time we--hung out.”

There’s something Steve’s not saying, something that hangs heavy in his eyes, in the way his smile doesn’t quite reach them. Bucky doesn’t know him well enough to know what, but he thinks he knows him well enough to recognize it’s there.

“What happened?” he asks, softly.

Steve’s eyes water and that Bucky doesn’t miss. He swallows thickly and gives Bucky a weak, sad smile.

“She passed away,” he says. “Three years ago. Leukemia.”

“Oh.” Bucky feels Steve’s grief across the table, can see it etched in his shoulders. He can’t bear the thought of it, that Steve would still be so sad. He reaches under the table before he can stop himself, squeezes Steve’s knee.

“Sorry,” Steve says after a moment.

Steve wears happiness on his sleeve brightly, warmth and sunlight shared with those around him. His sadness he wears closer to his chest, not because it doesn’t carry the same force, but because it’s his alone to carry. Bucky can tell, by the way he quiets, the way he apologizes or looks apologetic every time he shares this part of himself, a sliver of someone who’s lost as much as he’s given. Bucky remembers his mention of his mother. He seems to have lost more than is fair.

“You don’t have to apologize for anything,” Bucky says, after a minute. “Except for choosing My Fair Lady. Because pal, I gotta tell you, Henry Higgins is _the worst_.”

It takes Steve another moment to swallow his raw grief, but when he does, he gives Bucky an appreciative look for the life line he’s cast.

“God, you’re right,” he laughs. “Henry Higgins _is_ the worst.”

“Freddy loved her the entire time!” Bucky exclaims.

“I always thought that,” Steve says, leaning forward. “Sometimes, I just want the person who’s been there the entire time to get the girl. Or the guy.”

“You’re a goddamned sap, Steve Rogers,” Bucky proclaims and Steve just smiles into his water.

The rest of lunch is less heavy. Bucky steals Steve’s fries in retaliation for the other day and Steve drinks most of the beer that Bucky orders in return. Bucky tells a story about an incident in high school with the lead of the school play and Steve throws his head back and laughs at all of the right parts. Under the table, unacknowledged by either of them, Bucky’s hand still rests on Steve’s knee and Steve’s hand rests on top.

  
“Okay, nerd,” Steve says. “Here’s the Beatles museum.”

“It’s called _The Beatles Story Experience, Steve_ ,” Bucky says.

And okay, Bucky could further protest this besmirchment of his fine character, if he wasn’t _so goddamned excited_ about being in the Beatles museum. He drags Steve along through the exhibit and different rooms because Steve admits to him he actually hasn’t been here yet either. There’s a room with their guitars and a room with their music and three rooms full of pictures that Bucky’s never seen before.

“I don’t get it,” Steve says, after Bucky shoves headphones over his head. “They’re fine.”

“Holy shit,” Bucky stares at him. “Are your ears broken? They’re _the greatest band of all time_.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Steve offers mildly and gets half a dozen offended looks from around the room.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says loudly. “My friend’s ears are broken. This is a hard and trying time for us all.”

Steve snorts and Bucky grabs his hand and drags him to the next room, where there’s a photobooth.

“Are you serious.” Steve gives him A Look and Bucky looks like Christmas has come early.  
  
They take a sheet of pictures together. In one, Bucky holds a guitar and pretends to be Paul McCartney. In another, Steve wears a Beatles hat and sash and looks deeply unimpressed. In another, both of them wear fake Beatles wigs and bend into each other, laughing.

And in one, unexpected, Bucky’s pretending to play the drums and in the middle, Steve leans over and kisses his cheek.

It’s so stupid and cheesy and Bucky’s surprised grin is so wide, it nearly doesn’t fit into the picture.

The last one is of them photoshopped into the famous Abbey Road background, walking across the street. Steve doesn’t understand it at all, but Bucky already knows he’s going to hang it up on his wall when he gets home.

  
They go to the next room and Bucky tugs insistently on Steve’s arm.

“We’re not doing Beatles karaoke, Bucky,” Steve says.

Bucky whines, but Steve doesn’t relent, which is the worst thing Steve Rogers has done to date.

  
They end up in the gift store after about an hour.

“Holy shit,” Bucky’s eyes are bugging out of his head.

“One thing,” Steve says, as though Bucky’s a child.

“Two things!” Bucky insists. “I’m not a child!”

Bucky buys a coffee table book of Beatles pictures for himself and a vinyl of Abbey Road for Becca for Christmas.

Steve sighs and buys Bucky a Beatles coach jacket and a mug, which is the best thing Steve Rogers has done to date.

Steve looks much aggrieved, but Bucky grins and kisses him and he looks less aggrieved after that.

  
By the time they leave the Beatles museum and head toward the bookshop, Bucky’s not even pretending he’s not holding Steve’s hand all the times in between.

  
“Tell me about Natasha,” Steve says. He brings them to an old bookstore about a 10 minute drive away. The shop is small and quiet, with rows of crowded, messy, precariously tilting books as high up as the eye can see. It’s one of those shops that have existed in the corner of reality and memory for as long as anyone can remember, a shop that carries only books that someone has held and loved before, the musty smell of well-loved paper and binding hanging in the air.

Bucky has to stop after they step in, just to close his eyes and breathe in. When he opens his eyes, he smiles, because Steve is doing the same.

He and Steve barely fit between the narrow, teetering aisles, but they manage somehow, although Bucky suspects that if he so much as sneezes he’ll unintentionally cause a domino toppling of every book in the entire store.

“She’s a menace,” Bucky says. They’re somewhere back by what could be the autobiographies or young adult fiction. It’s honestly hard to tell. “She’s the smartest person I know and sarcastic and no-nonsense. She calls me out on my shit and doesn’t let me hide behind any of my bullshit.”

“How’d you two meet?” Steve asks.

“High school. She saw me rehearsing for an audition I almost punked out of. She gave me the yelling of my life and she’s been by my side ever since. Wouldn’t trade her for the world.”

“She sounds like someone I’d like,” Steve says, smiling at that, and picks up an old tome of _Moby Dick_. He frowns.

“Maybe this is the classic literature section?”

Bucky picks up a volume of _Twilight_.

“I’m confused.”

Steve snickers and puts _Moby Dick_ back.

“Did you two ever--?”

Bucky snorts.

“Everyone asks me that, but no.” He picks up what looks to be an old copy of _The Giver_. He loved this book as a kid. He rifles through it. “Nat and I would never work. I’m too much of a mess and she’s too much of a hardass. We’d kill each other.”

He keeps _The Giver_ and moves down another aisle.

“What about you and Sam?”

“Okay,” Steve says and he already sounds like he’s bracing himself for a confession.

“Oh no.” Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“It was like a minute,” Steve says. “Maybe five minutes. It was a puppy crush, nothing more.”

“Does he know that?” Bucky snickers now.

“Yes,” Steve groans. “I told him and he laughed in my face for five minutes. He’s painfully straight.”

“Would you two have worked?” Bucky quirks a smile over a row of poetry.

“Maybe,” Steve says. “He's really like a brother, though, so he was right to laugh.”

“How long have you known him?”

“We met freshman year of college,” Steve says with a smile. “We were roommates for all four years.”

“What’s he do?” Bucky asks.

“He was there on an army scholarship, so he knew from the beginning that he was going off right after. Did two tours in Afghanistan and came back and immediately started volunteering at the VA. He wanted to help run support groups for veterans with PTSD.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles. “He’s something special. Claire’s a lucky woman.”

“He move here with you?” Bucky spies a gold-bound copy of what he’s positive is _Anna Karenina_ on the topmost shelf of his current row.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “He was looking for a fresh start and I needed a roommate again, so we thought why not?”

“And you both stayed.”

“For different reasons,” Steve says. He squats down to look through a stack on the floor.

Bucky reaches up on his tiptoes and grabs _Anna Karenina_. He brings it down without knocking anything over and rewards himself with a small noise of victory for his efforts.

“Fuck yes,” he says, grinning. “Oh she’s gonna love this. Much better than the socks I got her last year.”

“Socks are a universally great gift,” Steve says, looking up from his position on the ground. He has something in his hand that looks suspiciously like the third _Harry Potter_ book, but he sighs sadly when he sees what Bucky’s picked up. “That book is so sad.”

“You’re such a sap, Rogers,” Bucky informs him again. “Not every love story has a happy ending.”

Bucky doesn’t mean to trigger Steve, but he must anyway, because that sad smile ripples across his face again.

“I know,” he says, after a moment, softly. “But it’s nice. To imagine they do.”

Bucky swallows and Steve straightens.

“You gonna get that?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah,” Steve says and this time his smile is different, sweeter. “I know someone who’ll like it.”

  
They look around for another half an hour, the piles of books in their arms growing. Steve also picks up a cookbook, a book on impressionism, and a heavy volume on World War I. Bucky, in contrast, picks up five different science fiction books, two different fantasy books, and some series called _The Raven Cycle_ that Wanda’s been trying to get him to read.

They pay and shove the books into the back seat of the car, which, Bucky notices for the first time, is also piled with empty canvases, bottles of paint, and newly packaged brushes.

“I want to see your artwork sometime,” Bucky says. “If you’ll show me.”

Steve pauses.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, brightly. “I’m no expert or anything, but I bet I don’t have to be.”

“You could come to the gallery,” Steve says after a moment. “I’m...particular about which pieces of mine I put out, but there are a couple of things. They’re personal, but I don’t mind.”

“Personal how?” Bucky asks and Steve gives him a tight smile.

“Guess you’ll have to come find out.”

Bucky promises he will and it’s the first promise in a long time that he’s wanted to keep.

  
“Where to?” Bucky asks, fiddling with the radio again.

Steve grins at him.

“You’re in Liverpool,” he says to Bucky.

“...yeah?” Bucky blinks at him.

“There’s a place you have to go,” Steve says. “The holy ground.”

“You taking me to church?” Bucky says, confused.

Steve just smiles at him as he pulls out onto the road.

“Something like that.”

  
The holy ground turns out to be a massive soccer stadium that seems to be swaying under the weight and song of the thousands of people, all dressed in red, head to toe, scarves, jerseys, hats, flags. The place is called Anfield and is home to Liverpool’s famous soccer team.

“Football,” Steve says, buying Bucky a red scarf and flag from a vendor outside of the stadium. “They’re Liverpool football club.”

“It’s called soccer, Steve,” Bucky says, just to be annoying. “The only soccer game I’ve ever been to was once in junior high, when a guy I liked was on the soccer team.”

“What happened there?” Steve asks. He pays the man and turns back to Bucky, wrapping the scarf around his neck and tugging him forward to kiss him.

“I think he lost his virginity to a cheerleader,” Bucky smirks into the kiss. “Behind the bleachers, like a total cliche.”

He looks past Steve to the vendor. It’s a little stall set up with flags, hats, pins, scarves, and about a dozen other dumb souvenirs besides. Bucky picks up a dumb, floofy, red hat with a little fluffball at the top. It says YNWA across it and has a Liverbird stitched into the side. “Oh this is so dumb it’s practically begging to be put on your head.”

Bucky buys the dumb hat and pulls Steve close by his own scarf--Steve had one already in the car, apparently he’d bought tickets to this game the day before, hoping Bucky would stay, the absolute _sap_ \--and reached up to jam it onto his perfect head.

“God,” Bucky says, pulling back and admiring his handiwork. “You look so stupid.”

Steve laughs and Bucky reaches up to kiss him. Steve captures Bucky’s face between his hands and Bucky relishes the feel of those dry, cool hands against his quickly warming cheeks.

“Come on, Romeo,” Steve says with a laugh. “You don’t want to miss the singing.”

“I can hear it from here,” Bucky says, although he can’t make out the words.

“It’s better inside,” Steve says, squeezing his hand. “Trust me.”

  
It is better inside. Steve’s gotten them amazing seats, just ten rows back from the field itself. They’re in a sea of swaying, deliriously happy reds, which, Steve informs him, is what Liverpool fans are called.

“This is their home stadium,” he explains. “Anfield, or the Kop.”

“It’s like some religious kinda fervor in here,” Bucky says, watching the bright sea of red, the pure joy and excitement on every face he can see. The crowd is loud, thrumming with energy that it’s barely able to contain and which it doesn’t seem to want to.

“I've hated sports my entire life,” Steve says to him. “But there’s something about football here. It’s an adrenaline rush. It’s a family. It feels like a different kind of life.”

Bucky, who has never been to professional sporting event other than a few Knicks games and one Super Bowl that Clint Barton, Natasha’s not-so-secret boyfriend, had dragged him to, doesn’t really understand what Steve means.

But, about ten minutes before kick off, the crowd starts singing again, in unison, something about never walking alone, and he can almost feel it in his bones, this community, a family, an incontrovertible and overwhelming love for something outside of himself.

  
The whistle blows for kick off and the game starts. He looks over at Steve and Steve’s eyes are bright blue and excited and he’s already yelling at the field. Bucky’s heart flutters in his chest, a tight feeling that keeps expanding the more he absorbs the atmosphere around him. He thinks maybe he gets it or that he’s getting it.

“Foul! _You have eyes ref, use them!_ ” Steve screams and Bucky laughs.

“Penalty!” Bucky shouts, because three people behind him are shouting the same thing. “Penalty!”

Liverpool are awarded a penalty. Someone, their captain, Steve tells him, you can tell by the armband, steps up to the box to take it.

After a tense, quiet, unnerving moment, he takes the shot.

The goalkeeper dodges the wrong way.

It goes in.

The crowd _goes wild_. Steve, shouting and chanting with the best of them, puts his arms around Bucky, forcing him to jump up and down with him. Bucky laughs and jumps, puts his arms around Steve, a kiss to his neck. He’s swept up in it, a euphoria bigger than himself.

A different kind of life, Bucky thinks, strangely, deliriously happy. One worth being passionate about.

  
Liverpool win 3-1 against some team called Crystal Palace, which Steve informs Bucky does not mean that the team plays in a palace made of crystal.

“Well why fucking call it that, then!” Bucky protests.

“I’ll help you write an angry letter to the Premier League,” Steve says, clearly amused.

Bucky barely hears him. He’s flushed, excited, still a little jumpy from the adrenaline and high of the win. “Holy shit, Steve! That was amazing!”

Steve looks at him, beaming.

“I mean it, what a fucking rush! I mean there were a few times where it was touch and go--that one player? From the other team? I mean that tackle was _terrible_ , I wanted to kill him. But that second goal Liverpool made in! It was from so far away! It was so _good_.”

Bucky babbles, the most energetic and unfiltered he’s been in ages. He grabs Steve’s arm suddenly, digs his fingers in.

“Buck?” Steve says, grinning.

“ _That. Was. Awesome_ ,” Bucky says emphatically, earnestly.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Steve says. He’s looking at Bucky with--some kind of expression, something Bucky can’t really read. It’s happy, he thinks. Maybe fond. It’s just so bright and sentimental and Bucky’s too high on the thrill of win to really read it properly or care, really.

 

They get back to the car and Steve drags him to the far end.

“You’re so cute,” Steve says, pressing Bucky against the passenger window. He holds Bucky’s face between his hands again and kisses him once, twice, and another time for good measure, all messy and laughing.

“Steve!” Bucky whines between laughter.

“Seriously,” Steve says and kisses him again. “You’re driving me crazy.”

Bucky tangles his hands in Steve’s scarf and pulls him closer, wraps his arms around his suspiciously narrow waist. He presses sloppy, fast, open-mouthed kisses between them until Steve slows him down, until they’re both smiling and making out lazily, happily against Steve’s stupid 30 year old blue VW bug.

  
When Steve finally pulls back, Bucky’s been good and thoroughly kissed. Both their mouths are a bright red.

“I’m going to take you back to the cottage now,” Steve says, Bucky’s warm face still between his hands. “But you’re gonna call me tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, heady and breathless.

“Let me take you on another date,” Steve says.

“Okay,” Bucky says.

“Kiss me again,” Steve says.

“Okay,” Bucky says and leans back in.

  
Bucky’s nearly _whistling_ when his phone rings at the cottage. He picks it up without looking at who it is.

“Miss me already?” he grins. He’s lounging on the couch in sweatpants and his favorite sweatshirt, lazily patting Riley’s head.

“Wow,” a familiar, husky voice comes over the line. “Is someone getting laid?”

Bucky nearly chokes.

“Nat!”

“Hey, slugger,” Nat’s voice comes, soothing and familiar over the line. Bucky has to stop for a second, he’s so overwhelmed with how good it is to hear her voice. “You’ve been missing in action.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a smile. “Being a ghost suits me.”

“Says the Hollywood superstar,” Natasha says, sounding amused.

“Not here,” Bucky says, laughing. “Here I’m the weird American who bought way too much chocolate on his first day and grumbles about prawn crisps every time he’s at the store.”

Natasha chuckles over the line.

“You sound happy. You doing anything I need to be worried about? Or anyone?”

Bucky laughs, cheeks coloring even though Natasha can’t see him.

“Well,” Bucky says and he lays his head back against the couch arm and stares at the ceiling goofily. “Just the one time. Though, hopefully not the last.”

There’s silence over the phone for one surprised moment.

“ _James Buchanan Barnes!_ ” Natasha’s voice comes sharp and indignant over the phone. “ _Tell me everything_.”

Bucky laughs and does.


	8. The Musician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki changes out of his yoga pants and takes a shower after his afternoon class. He dries his hair with the towel, considering his options for the evening. Limbs warm and loose, he feels at once too lazy to do anything too strenuous and too restless to stay in and just a watch a movie with Tom. As though the cat knows exactly what he needs, he looks up at Loki and mrows.
> 
> “Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?” Loki looks at the cat dubiously.
> 
> Tom mrows in affirmation.
> 
> “We are not friends,” Loki says. Tom mrows again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Eighth Day of Ficmas my True Love gave to me, some poor guitar lessons, one magical Christmas market, a rowdy board game night, and a lot of fluffy Thorki.
> 
> This is a Good Chapter. One of my favorites, maybe.

Vali sits on Bucky’s couch, cross-legged, petting Tom as he watches some Christmas cartoon special that’s either about a sponge that lives in a pineapple discovering the holiday spirit or a little boy with a head shaped like a football finding his parents for Christmas, Loki’s not sure which. He has a stack of papers sitting on the kitchen counter, cookies baking in the oven, and the soundtrack to The Lord of the Rings playing gently in the background.

The contract had arrived for him that morning, via international express mail, just as Baldur had promised. Loki had taken one look at the certified envelope and swallowed the sinking feeling in his stomach. Heartbreak and heart confusion was one thing, reading through patents was something else entirely. Loki knows he’s good at what he does. Scanning and deciphering science and legal jargon is something boring and complicated that he excels at. Still, that doesn’t stop him from looking through for an accompanying note. He finds none.

  
Now he has a handful of highlighters and pens scattered across the counter as he leans against it, frowning at a particular turn of phrase and marking it to the side. He’s been working, lost in the soothing lull of contract analysis, for what must be at least a half an hour because Vali comes plodding back in, Tom in his arms, and his face scrunched up.

“I think the cookies are burning,” he says.

Loki looks up at him, blinking, and then promptly curses.

“Fuck,” he swears, dropping his highlighter to grab oven mitts and opening the oven door. There’s no black smoke billowing forth from inside, but there’s a distinctly unsavory, burnt smell wafting through the air.

He takes the tray of cookies out and both he and Vali examine the snowmen with the third degree burns on their bottoms and middles sadly.

“Maybe they’ll still taste okay with frosting,” Vali says, dubiously.

“Remind me why I agreed to this again,” Loki says.

“You wanted sugar and I’m ten years old,” Vali says.

“I should have gone to the bakery,” Loki remarks.

“I suggested that, remember?” Vali says. He pokes a snowman with a finger and then withdraws it with a light yelp.

“Not so smart now, are you?” Loki smirks and then feels just a little bad for smirking at a ten year old. Vali glares at him while sucking on his burned finger. There’s no heat behind the look, though, so the guilt doesn’t last for too long.

“Are you done working yet?” Vali makes his way over to the kitchen counter, looking at the contract papers and going slightly cross-eyed in the process. Tom looks distinctly unimpressed and fusses to be let down. Vali lets him down and the little furball swishes away, presumably to eat more of his overpriced, gourmet roast chicken.

“I’m never done working,” Loki says. He turns the oven off, sets the tray of semi-burnt snowmen on top of the stove coils, and puts away the oven mitts.

“Is that what being an adult is like?” Vali asks. Loki turns back around in time to see the kid’s hand creeping toward a pen.

“Don’t even think about it,” Loki says. He crosses his arms. “Like what?”

Vali sighs and rearranges his hands so they’re just tapping restlessly on the counter.

“Working all the time,” he says. “That’s all Mrs. H does too. It’s so boring.”

“You like living in a veritable mansion in the sky?” Loki asks.

“It’s not the worst,” Vali concedes.

“Penthouses don’t just appear out of thin air when you turn eighteen,” Loki says. He goes back toward the counter, starts shuffling the contract pages into some semblance of order. “You work yourself to the bone to get enough money to get the things you want.”

“And then what?” Vali asks, watching him.

Loki frowns.

“What do you mean?”

“So you get the things you want,” he says. “And then what? Mrs. H is never home, so it’s not like she ever gets to use the things she buys or enjoy her mansion in the sky.”

“It’s better to have it and not be able to enjoy it than not have it at all,” Loki says, still frowning.

“That makes no sense, Mr. Loki,” Vali says. “And I think you know that.”

Loki lets out a little grunt of acknowledgement. The kid, apart from being just too happy and sweet and good-natured, is actually a little too smart for his own good too.

Loki sighs and gathers all of the highlighters and pens.

“Fine, since you are so smart,” he says. “What would you do instead?”

“Well,” Vali considers. “I’d work cause I want things too. But not so much I couldn’t use them. Like--” His face gets animated here, really excited. “--like, if I worked and had enough money and got a new guitar, I’d want to have lessons too and learn to play it. What’s the point of having a guitar if you don’t know how to play it?”

Loki looks at him, amused.

“Still haven’t convinced your foster mother to give you lessons?” he asks.

Vali visibly deflates. He sighs.

“I still haven’t asked,” he says. “Maybe I can watch some YouTube videos or something.”

Loki watches him, debating. Vali hops toward the other side of the oven, where Loki’s left a little tub of icing and a spatula. He opens the top.

“The cookies are still too hot, kid,” Loki says. “The icing’s going to melt right off.”

“No it’s not!” Vali protests, in all of his ten year old stubbornness. “I want cookies!”

Loki snorts. Vali diligently scoops out and spreads icing over the burned snowmen. There’s far too much on each of them and that’s not counting the snowflake sprinkles he then eagerly dumps on top. He then takes a little tube of black icing and starts drawing eyes and noses. This all takes him approximately ten minutes.

The icing lasts just as long as it takes him to finish before starting to slowly melt around the edges. The snowmen’s eyes and noses slide slowly down their deformed bodies.  

“Noooooo,” Vali wails and Loki snorts. Then he snorts again. Then he starts to laugh. Vali looks back at him with an offended look. “Mr. Loki!”

Loki can’t help it. The snowmen look _terrible_. He doubles over, laughing uncontrollably.

“Mr. Loki!” Vali protests again, but by this time, Loki’s laughing so hard, Vali can’t help it either. He starts cracking up too. He covers his face, breathless with laughter.

  
It takes two minutes of uncontrolled, raucous laughter for both of them to both regain some measure of control over themselves again. They gulp air into their lungs. By that time, Loki’s wiping tears out of his eyes and then pushing himself off the kitchen counter.

“All right,” he says, still chuckling. “Go get your guitar.”

Vali hiccups through the last bits of his laughter and looks at Loki curiously.

“Why?”

“You know the best part of being an adult, Vali?” Loki asks.

“What’s that?”

“When you say something, kids have to listen to you,” Loki says, baring his teeth. He walks past Vali, shoving at his shoulders. “Go get your guitar. I’ll be on the couch.”

  
Vali comes back through the elevator ten minutes later, with an old, acoustic guitar nestled in between his small arms. It’s half the size of him and a deep, chestnut color, burnished at parts and fading with age at others. Vali holds it with all of the caution and care uncharacteristic of a ten year old, as though holding it with any more force would break it and breaking it would break his little heart.

Loki’s perched on one of the couch’s arms when he plods back in. He extends his hands for the guitar. Vali looks at him, hesitating, before taking a breath and handing his treasure over.

It’s been a long time since Loki’s held any instrument. The last time he remembers was his first year of law school, when, young and foolish, he had gone home with a classmate and found a piano in his parent’s sitting room. The entire affair had ended in a disaster and Loki had made a promise to himself that he would focus only on the important things from then on. After a while, the important things had become only adult things and utilitarian things and music, though always hovering at his fingertips, had fulfilled neither of those specific purposes.

Loki shifts over to the couch, cradling the guitar properly in his arms, the body resting against his stomach and thigh.

“Do you know how to play, Mr. Loki?” Vali looks at him, mouth slightly askew.

“A bit,” Loki says with a smile. He breathes in the familiar scent of the wood, takes a moment to enjoy the solid weight of the instrument in his arms and against his thighs. His fingers brush lightly against the strings, familiarizing themselves once again with the sensations and sounds they make as they pull and twang against each other.

  
Once, the guitar had been his favorite instrument. It was the first instrument he had learned to play, at age five, when, precocious and still innocent enough to love something unconditionally and obviously, he had watched his older foster brother play in his room and asked if he could teach him. Hellbindi, who, to date, Loki still believes to be the only foster sibling or parent who had ever truly loved him, spent the next six months teaching Loki how to read and write music and the year after that how to master the guitar. Loki had taken to music like a flower to the sun and, for a short while, he had flourished, both under affection and talent. Then, just a year later, he had accidentally caught the kitchen on fire while trying to play a harmless trick on Býleistr and been moved out of that home into a series of foster situations, each one more miserable than the last, that would dominate his life for the next twelve years.

For the majority of those years, after he had lost Hellbindi, in an effort to stay afloat, Loki had clung to music like a life raft. He taught himself other instruments, one at a time, when he had the chance and stole chances when he didn’t have one. He mastered the piano, the harp, the flute, the cello, and even, briefly, the drums, although percussion instruments never turned out to be his strong suit. Although he proved quite good at each of these, he could never quite replicate the feeling he had had, all of those years ago, watching Hellbindi and holding his guitar as his foster brother taught him all the chords. Every time Loki held a guitar, he remembered the one year in his life he had found someone who saw him as someone worth teaching and caring for. 

He’s always loved the guitar best of all. He hasn’t held one in over seven years.

  
Vali comes and sits next to him, looking at the guitar in Loki’s arms and looking at Loki himself with an expression Loki recognizes, with a jolt, an expression he thinks he had on his face every time Hellbindi spoke to him.

“Will you play something for me?” Vali asks.

“It’s been a while,” Loki murmurs. “I may have forgotten how.”

He hasn’t, of course. He couldn’t forget it if he tried.

Loki tightens the strings, rests his fingers just so on the head and then down onto the neck. He strums a few chords, letting the reverberations sink through his fingers into the bones of his hands and wrist. He’s rusty, but it’s familiar. He strums a few more chords and then some more, until he picks a tune out of his memory. It’s something Hellbindi had taught him, a simple, beautiful piece of acoustic that’s both sweet and lazy. His fingers tighten and release strings, shift tones, slide easily across the body, at first with remembered effort and then, effortlessly, muscle memory taking over. It’s been seven years and Loki’s hands remember every fluttering movement.

“Oh,” Vali says. His face is pink, his eyes wide. The happiness and awe rolls off of him.

Loki smiles at him, stretches the song out a little, changes it at the end, from something sad to something sweet, a little something from his memory, a little something from now. His shoulders, always so rigid and tense, soften. It’s like taking a breath of fresh air after a long time underground, or like warming up by the fire after hours outside in the cold.

“Will you teach me?” Vali asks, once Loki’s song fades down into a finish. Vali looks at him the way Loki had always looked at Hellbindi, with so much hope and eagerness as to break a heart altogether.

Loki swallows, feeling unsettled. _I’m not good enough to be watched that way_ , he thinks. _I’m not Hellbindi_. 

“Mr. Loki?” Vali’s expression flickers. “I’ll do anything you ask. I’ll be so good.”

It occurs to him that Vali might not care who he is or who he isn’t. That all this lonely kid really needs is for someone to see him, which is all Loki had ever really wanted, with Hellbindi and in all the years after. Loki may never be good or be good enough, but he can be good to this kid, for this kid, in this moment, and he thinks maybe that will count for something.

“All right,” he says. His foster brother’s words echo in his ears as he beckons Vali to slide closer. “Come here. Let me show you how to hold it.”

  
Loki changes out of his yoga pants and takes a shower after his afternoon class. He dries his hair with the towel, considering his options for the evening. Limbs warm and loose, he feels at once too lazy to do anything too strenuous and too restless to stay in and just a watch a movie with Tom. As though the cat knows exactly what he needs, he looks up at Loki and mrows.

“Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?” Loki looks at the cat dubiously.

Tom mrows in affirmation.

“We are not friends,” Loki says. Tom mrows again. He doubts Loki entirely too much for Loki to feel entirely comfortable about the situation. He sighs and tosses the towel onto a chair. “Oh all right. He might be busy and this effort will be a waste anyway. Then I shall blame you and eat your roast chicken.”

Tom mrows in indignation, glaring at Loki, and then swishes away into another room.

Loki fishes his phone out from under the stack of patents he’s still going through and, with a sigh, scrolls through his recent contacts. He closes his eyes, ignoring the slight appearance of nerves in his stomach, and breathes out through his nose. The phone rings.

He picks up on the third ring.

“I’m sorry, did you mean to call me?” Thor sounds entirely too amused. “Is this a butt dial? Or maybe you meant to call the other Thor.”

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I fortunately and unfortunately only know the one,” he says.

“I’m flattered.” Loki can almost see the huge grin on Thor’s face.

“Don’t be,” Loki says. “It was meant as an insult.”

“Your insults aren’t great,” Thor laughs.

“Shut up,” Loki says. He takes a breath, fiddling with the bottom of his sweater. “Are you busy?”

Thor pauses, perhaps in surprise.

“I was just cleaning my apartment. Hela’s eaten through three pairs of shoes and a couch cushion. There are feathers all over? Nothing she ate had feathers in it. I’m so confused.”

Loki snorts.

“I did try to warn you,” he says. “The goddess of death and all.”

“The goddess of eating inanimate objects, maybe,” Thor mutters over the line. “Anyway, is there a reason you asked? You miss me already? Want to spend every waking moment with me?”

“Nevermind,” Loki says, loudly. “Goodbye--”

“Hold on!” Thor laughs on the line. “I’m joking, I’m sorry. What’s up?”

Loki huffs out, half in irritation half in pure exasperation at this man’s existence.

“I may have a free evening,” Loki says. “And desire company other than the cat’s.”

“I don’t know if I’m better company than a cat,” Thor says, “But worst comes to worst I can make cat noises to make up for it.”

“You are the most absurd human I have ever had the displeasure of meeting,” Loki says, which only makes Thor laugh again.

“Okay, okay,” he says. “I have an idea. Meet me at Union Square. And dress warm.”

  
Loki pulls his peacoat close around him, his thick, woollen scarf barely keeping him warm against the cold wind gusting at his face. His nose feels like it’s going to fall off. He’s about to leave, when he hears a familiar voice.

“Loki!”

Loki turns around and--there he is, the huge, hulking, mammoth of a blond, dressed in his puffy coat and a bright smile.

“I thought you might have forgotten and left me to freeze to death,” Loki says.

“You’re a hard man to forget,” Thor says. Loki blinks at that and Thor smiles. “Come on.”

“Where are you taking me?” Loki asks after Thor grabs his arm and drags him down the sidewalk. “If it is not to food, I am not above eating your arm.”

“You’re really easy to admit to cannibalism,” Thor chuckles. “I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

“It’s not cannibalism,” Loki sniffs. “It is self-preservation.”

“You’re in the middle of New York City,” Thor says wryly. “Call me optimistic, but I think you’ll survive.”

“You don’t know that,” Loki mutters under his breath, but Thor doesn’t hear because they hit a crowd of people. Loki frowns, hating crowds of people and people in general, as a general sort of rule. Luckily, he’s tall enough to see over the heads of most of the people in front of them, so he doesn’t have to crane his neck much to just look over and see--oh. There are tents glowing with strung lights and all sorts of trinkets.

Thor looks at him and beams.

“Have you been to one yet?” Thor asks.

“Not here,” Loki admits. “I haven’t been to a Christmas market in--a few years.”

“Do you have something against them?” Thor asks with a frown. “We can go somewhere else.”

“No,” Loki says quickly. “No, it’s just--I’ve been busy. For a few years.”

Thor’s express softens.

“Well, there’s no time like the present to find some holiday spirit,” he says. His hand still on Loki’s arm, he guides them through the crowd at the entrance.

“I hope you mean holiday spirit literally,” Loki says.

Thor grins.

“I know a stall,” he says.

  
Well, mulled wine isn’t exactly _food_ , but Loki isn’t exactly complaining. Thor buys both of them a cup, despite Loki’s protestations, which die quickly anyway as the drink quickly warms him up.

“Thank you,” Loki says, begrudgingly and Thor smiles. They move away from the stall, drinks in hand, bumping into one another and a hundred strangers besides as the crowd ebbs and flows around them. “Do you still need to buy presents?”

“I always get my mom an ornament from one of the stalls,” Thor says. “My dad’s hard to shop for, so I always wander around and then end up buying something that makes no sense.”

Loki snorts into his wine.

“For example?”

“Last year I bought him a sweater that lit up,” Thor says. Loki stares at him and he laughs. “I know. It was terrible and he almost shocked himself when he spilled coffee on it. The year before I got him a Karl Marx doll.”

“Is he a Marxist?” Loki raises an eyebrow.

“I honestly don’t know,” Thor says. “But the doll had funny hair and kinda reminded me of dad.”

Loki snorts again.

“And then the year before--oh this was the worst. I went around this market twice and then the one at Columbus Circle and then the one at Bryant Park and ended up back here.”

Loki steps into a stall that’s filled with hats and gloves.

“And?”

“Soap,” Thor says, shamefully.

Loki turns to him.

“Are you serious?”

“I know,” Thor moans in embarrassment. “I’ve never lived it down. Every year before he opens his present from me, he asks out loud what bathing product I’ve given him this year.”

“That is uniquely terrible,” Loki murmurs.

“So no soap, philosopher dolls, or light up Christmas sweaters this year,” Thor says. “Which leaves the list of what I can get him at gingerbread cookies, maybe? Or socks.”

“Socks are a universally great gift,” Loki says.

“And don’t get me started on Jane--” Thor says.

Loki steps forward, eyeing an entire rack of animal hats. He pauses.

“Jane?”

“My girlfriend,” Thor says. He looks over Loki’s head, looking at the hats with interest. Loki stills at that, just slightly, just enough to be noticeable. “Are you okay?”

Loki puts on a facsimile of a smile, ignores the irrational sinking in his stomach. Obviously Thor has a girlfriend. Just look at him. “Just fine. What about Jane?”

“I might have given her a gift card last year,” Thor mutters and Loki has to stop _again_ and stare at him. “I know! I know. Trust me, she made her displeasure perfectly clear.”

“You could have given _her_ soap and your father a gift card and they both would have been better pleased,” Loki says.

Thor stares at him, as though a light bulb has just gone off in his head, three years too late.

“ _Where were you last year?_ ” Thor demands and Loki smirks.

He shifts around Thor as the other man grumbles about unnecessary expectations and reaches forward for a fox hat and puts it on. He turns back around. “What do you think?”

“Is that commentary on what animal best describes you?” Thor asks, expression changing from belabored to amused.

“No, I just thought it was cute,” Loki says. He takes the hat off and puts it back. He scans the rack and finds a panda. Grinning, he reaches for it. When he turns back around, Thor has a raccoon on his head. Loki has to stifle a laugh.

“So what’s your opinion on bamboo?” Thor grins.

“Hard to digest,” Loki declares. “Do you rummage through many trash cans?”

“All the time,” Thor says. “Sometimes, I feel like a trash can.”

Loki laughs and puts the panda back.

“No wait, I got it.” Thor’s voice comes behind him, close and just a few inches above his head. Before Loki knows what’s happening, he feels something slide on his head.

“What have you done,” he asks before looking in the mirror. “You ass!”

There’s a dumb looking Rudolph, antlers and all, sticking out of Loki’s head. Beside him, Thor doubles over in laughter.

Loki seeks to find the silliest looking one he can and--his face lights up as he spots it. Before Thor can straighten, Loki jams a Pikachu hat onto his head.

“Hey!” it’s Thor’s turn to protest as Loki cracks up. Thor straightens and examines himself in the mirror. “Honestly, not half bad.”

“You’re an idiot,” Loki says, still chuckling.

They both take their hats off and look through the gloves. After a few more minutes of bickering and teasing and shoving each other until the owner of the stall gives them both dirty looks, they somehow manage to leave the booth without destroying it, Thor with a pair of mittens shaped like monkeys and Loki with a pair shaped like tigers.

  
“Are you hungry?” Thor asks.

“Starving.” Loki puts on his tiger mittens and holds them up to Thor, wiggling his fingers in one mass. Thor snickers, puts his monkey mittens on, grabs Loki’s hand and drags him to the stalls selling food.

“What are you thinking?” Thor asks. They stand behind a bench, scanning the offerings in the area--there’s a stall with soup, one with arepas, another with tacos, and still another with dumplings. There’s waffles and pastries and some Turkish wrap and artisan sandwiches and flatbreads. The scent of fresh, hot food wafts through the area. Loki’s stomach grumbles loudly, yearning desperately.

“All of it,” Loki says.

“So, a kale smoothie?” Thor grins and has just enough time to smirk, pleased with his comment, before Loki drives an elbow into his stomach. The smirk evaporates into a cringe of pain.

“Ass!” Loki declares again and frog marches Thor over to the Turkish stand.

“Two chicken gozlemes,” he says to the little old Turkish woman making the crepes behind the glass. “My friend is paying.”

He flashes Thor a wolfish smile, all teeth and menace, and Thor rolls his eyes, but pays anyway.

  
They end up eating a gozleme, an artisan sandwich, and two arepas each and splitting a tomato and mozzarella flatbread and fresh pretzel between them before Loki slumps against Thor’s side.

“I cannot eat another bite,” he says. “I can’t believe you made me eat so much.”

“So you don’t want fresh apple cider donuts?” Thor asks.

Loki looks offended and hits his arm.

“You oaf! When did I say that?”

  
Loki is filled with apple cider donuts and buys them both fresh hot chocolate by the time Thor finds his mother an ornament of a snowflake that he thinks she’ll love. He eyes some creepy wooden rabbit for his dad two stalls later and Loki hits his arm again.

“Fine,” Thor grumbles, leaving the stall of vaguely creepy wooden figures unhappily. Loki rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his hot chocolate. He spies a booth filled with delicate jewelry.

“How about a necklace?” he says.

“I don’t wear necklaces,” Thor says.

“For your girlfriend, you absolute moron.” Loki looks so deeply unimpressed by Thor’s lack of intuition that it makes Thor grin at him sheepishly.

They weave through a small group to get to it. The display is lovely, delicately wrought silver designs gleaming under the light of the booth. Necklaces hang from a rod running across the top, while a case of rings and bracelets glimmer on a bed of white cloth.

“How about this?” Thor asks, bending down and picking up a bracelet. It’s twisted silver, with a red gem placed in the middle.

“It’s lovely,” Loki says. “If a bit plain.”

Thor frowns and puts it back. He mutters as he looks through the jewelry, clearly clueless. Loki rolls his eyes and looks around. Loki’s never been one for jewelry, but he has finely honed his sense of luxury and taste over the past few years. He looks through the display and turns to watch Thor struggle, when something catches his eye.

He reaches up, finds a lovely silver necklace with two turtledoves at the end.

“Thor,” he says. Thor looks at him and immediately his eyes light up.

“Oh,” Thor says. He comes over, cups the little dove in his hand.

“It would be like the song,” Loki says. “Two turtledoves. But no partridge in a pear tree.”

“It’s--wow.” Thor looks at the necklace and looks at Loki. They’re so close Loki can feel the heat coming off of Thor. He swallows, but can’t seem to tear his eyes away. Thor, for his part, looks at Loki softly, all awe and appreciation. “Loki, it’s perfect. She’ll love it.”

They stand like that, inches apart, watching one another, carefully, strangely. Loki feels something flutter in his chest, which he dutifully ignores. He tries to take in a breath and it’s a little more difficult than anticipated.

Thor, for his part, looks somewhat the same. His eyes are a bright, bright blue.

“Would you like that, sir?” the lady at the booth asks, breaking through their strange reverie.

“Yes,” Thor says, finally breaking eye contact with Loki. He turns toward the lady and Loki lets out a shaky breath. “I think my girlfriend will love this. Thank you.”

Loki takes another sip of his hot chocolate and steps out of the booth to let Thor pay. The hot chocolate doesn’t heat him as much as it did a minute ago, but he still feels a little warm and flustered all the same.

  
“You can’t possibly still be hungry,” Thor laughs at Loki eyeing the stand of fresh, gingerbread men.

“I’m not,” Loki says, loftily. He sips at his hot chocolate and tries to walk past. There’s a stall full of lotions right next to it. Is it really his fault if his eyes slide back to the display of cookies?

“Oh, it’s killing you,” Thor grins. “Come on.”

He takes Loki by the arm, ignoring his protests, and drags him back.

  
They end up with a gingerbread man each, although after Loki happily finishes his and eyes Thor’s, Thor hands his over with a groan.

“You have a sugar problem,” he says. “You know that, right?”

“It’s not a problem if I admit it’s a problem,” Loki says, nibbling on the second gingerbread man’s blob of an arm.

“That is definitely not how it works,” Thor snorts.

“That’s how it works if I say that’s how it works,” Loki smirks and takes a huge bite of the gingerbread man’s head. Thor rolls his eyes, but fondly. They walk past three other stalls, before Loki sees a vendor selling little Christmas pet vests. He looks up at Thor with unconcealed enthusiasm.

“She’ll chew through it before it’s out of the bag,” Thor protests, but he follows Loki in.

“Does she want to be the goddess of elves or of bells?” Loki looks at knit sweater vests of both.

“She would like to be the goddess of biting things,” Thor says. He stands over Loki, examining a little vest that comes with a headpiece of horns. In a stall this small, Loki can feel Thor’s broad chest at his back, muscles hard and apparent even under a puffy coat. The top of Loki’s head brushes Thor’s cheek as he reaches past him. If Loki turns right now, he’ll brush his lips against Thor’s arm. He holds very still.

“She would look so silly in horns,” Thor says with a grin and falls back with the costume in his hands. He moves just enough away to let Loki breathe out.

“It’s Christmas, Thor,” Loki says. “Do you want your dog to be the devil or to be Santa’s helper?”

“Both?” Thor looks confused.

Loki sighs at him in exasperation. 

  
Predictably, Thor ends up getting both.

  
“You’re not someone who can make decisions, are you?” Loki asks as they finally step away from the booth.

“Making decisions is a product of the patriarchy,” Thor says, promptly. Loki stares at him and he laughs. “Mom was doing her Master’s when I was little. Dad worked long hours, so she always took me to class with her.” He pauses. “She’d probably give me a lecture if she knew I was making light of the patriarchy while contributing to the patriarchy as a red-blooded, clueless man.”

Loki looks amused at that. They step past a crowd gathered in front of a booth of artwork made of pins and burlap sacks.

“You can at least name the patriarchy, which is a rarity among red-blooded, clueless men,” he says.

“I think she thinks I spent all of those classes coloring, but I actually spent most of it listening to her,” Thor says with a smile. “She was the most brilliant person in her courses by miles. I was five or six, but it was clear to me even then.”

“Does she teach?” Loki asks. They stop at a booth selling wallets and look through the leather wares.

“Yeah, at a small liberal arts college near Boston,” Thor says.

“What does your father do?” Loki tries not to sound interested, but he doesn’t quite manage it. Having grown up with no family to call his own, he’s always had a vested interest in what others looked like.

“He runs an engineering firm,” Thor says.

“Mm,” Loki says. He picks through the wallets and finds them all wanting. “He didn’t want you to join him?”

“Oh yeah,” Thor says and his tone darkens for a moment. Loki looks up at him questioningly and Thor sighs. “My entire life he wanted me to take over for him, but I never had the head or heart for math or science. I tried for a semester in college and nearly flunked out. I barely got through with my fine arts degree anyway. He didn’t talk to me for two? Three years?”

Loki frowns at that.

“Mom got to him in the end,” Thor says, a little bitterly. “Well that and my Tony nomination.”

Loki stares at him. “Your what?”

Thor grins a little sheepishly, sorting through wallets.

“I just got lucky,” he says. “I met someone in college and we started working together on this musical. I couldn’t get it out of my head. One thing led to another and someone thought we had potential.”

Thor looks at once pleased and embarrassed to admit something so wonderful. It’s different from his usual, self-assured, easy confidence and the space between the two sides is disconcerting, as though there’s a whole person fit into the middle.

“Your girlfriend must love that,” Loki muses. He shifts over, finding a corner of leather-bound diaries and journals.

“What?”

“Dating a Tony-nominated musical director,” Loki says. He picks up a leather journal with green and silver vines embossed into it.

“Jane…” Thor trails off for a moment, a frown flickering quickly over his features. He sighs and picks up a leather-covered pen and fidgets with it. “She likes what I write.”

“I sense a but.” Loki raises an eyebrow.

“Jane’s an astrophysicist,” Thor says.

“Jesus,” Loki mutters under his breath and Thor doesn’t seem to notice.  
  
“She’s all numbers and facts and pragmatism. She works a lot too, but it’s hours at the lab, when she’s at the lab. It’s different for me.” Thor frowns, trying to explain. “Sometimes I’ll work on something for hours at a time and sometimes I’ll go weeks without. And then other times, I’ll be in the middle of doing something else and have to stop if inspiration hits me. It’s unpredictable. She’s not great at unpredictable.”

Thor sighs and runs a hand through his stupidly lovely, golden hair.

“I guess that makes me sound like an asshole,” he says.

Loki laughs, a little hollowly, and puts the vine journal back.

“I work all day every day,” he says, amused. “There’s no work schedule, unpredictable or not, that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“What do you do?” Thor asks, curious.

Loki’s avoided answering many questions or offering much information about himself up to this point. He fidgets with the lock on another journal before sighing and shrugging.

“I’m a barrister,” Loki says. “Attorney. I work at a law firm in London.”

“London,” Thor says, brightly. “I’ve always wanted to write a musical for the West End.”

“I’ve never been,” Loki says absently. “To the theater, I mean.”

Thor stares at him. He’s silent for long enough that Loki pauses opening another diary and looks up at him.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes?” Loki blinks.

“Never?” Thor’s starting to sound indignant. “To a single musical?”

“No, Thor.”

“A single play?” Thor asks incredulously. “A children’s play.”

“None of my foster parents were particularly indulgent in that regard,” Loki says, carelessly, sounding amused. The words are barely out of his mouth before he realizes what he’s said. The truth of his words dawn on Thor’s face.

“Your foster parents?” Thor asks, quietly.

Loki swallows, looking down at the display in front of them, his stomach churning. How could he have gotten so careless? In the last five years, the only people he had told about his own childhood were Baldur and Sam Wilson, one because he was in love with him and the other because he’s been his roommate for the past two years and some things are unavoidable, like why Loki has little to no pop culture knowledge and never goes home for the holidays.

“This one’s lovely,” Loki says, deflecting. He picks up a leather-bound volume with a snake winding up the side. Above the bronze clasp, also set into the leather, is a small helmet with horns. He unclasps the journal and lets it fall open. Inside, the sheets are soft to the touch, creamy, and beautiful. “I love snakes.”

“I used to keep journals when I was younger,” Thor says, looking over Loki’s shoulder. He allows the change in topic and Loki breathes a slight sigh of relief. “Volumes filled with teen angst.”

“I had a journal I used to transcribe music in,” Loki says, absentmindedly, running his finger down the spine.

“What?” Thor looks at him, eyes widening.

“I wonder where it went,” Loki mutters. He doesn’t noticed Thor’s eyes on him or the slight stiffening of the other man’s body.

Loki remembers the journal very well. A few years after he had been moved away from Hellbindi, he had taken a part-time job after school, partly to have some money to call his own and partly to escape the latest toxic home he had been placed into. He had seen a beautiful moleskine journal at a Waterstones that he couldn’t get out of his head. He had scraped together money for months to save up for it and when he was finally able to buy it, it didn’t disappoint. He had spent the next two years carefully transcribing music into the journal, writing his own pieces, and changing others. He must have lost it somewhere between his adolescence and his adulthood. He hasn’t thought about that journal in years.

Loki puts the journal back, blinking away the memories.

“You play music?” Thor asks, bringing him back to reality.

Loki sighs. Neither Thor nor Vali seem keen to let him forget what he’s spent years trying to forget.

“A little,” Loki says. “It was long ago.”

Thor places a hand on Loki’s elbow and Loki looks at him, annoyed.

“Play for me,” Thor says, excitedly.

“No,” Loki says, shortly. He shrugs off Thor and moves away from the booth.

“What about the journal?” Thor says, following him and looking back at the stall with a frown.

“I do not need the journal,” Loki says. He moves through the crowd, the cool air quickly growing colder, although he starts getting more irritated.

“You could use it to transcribe again,” Thor says. “Do you write as well? Play with me. Let’s write something together.”

“ _No_ ,” Loki says, snappishly, coming to a stop.

“Loki,” Thor starts and Loki turns on him.

“I said _no_ , Thor,” Loki says. “I do not wish to play music, I do not wish to write music, and even if I did, I do not care to share either of those with you. We have just met. You do not know me. Stop forcing your desires on me.”

Thor looks taken aback. A flash of hurt crosses his face and, for a moment, Loki feels guilty. It quickly gets buried under an inordinate amount of ire, which he can distantly identify as a defense mechanism, but which doesn’t actually help temper his irritation.

“I--” Thor says, starts and stops. Then he nods. “You’re right.”

Loki, angry and ready to snap again, pauses.

“What?”

“You’re right,” Thor says. “I don’t know you. I’m sorry. I get carried away sometimes.”

Loki’s anger and irritation ebbs, despite himself.

“Oh,” he says.

“Forgive me,” Thor says and he’s all sincerity again, the kind Loki cannot face for the baldness of it.

“It’s fine,” Loki mutters.

The two stand, facing one another in the cold, awkwardly for a minute, until Loki starts shivering.

“It’s cold,” Thor says. “Come back to my place.”

Loki looks up at him, eyebrow raised.

“It’s close to here,” Thor says with a smile. “I won’t make you play anything, I promise.”

Loki looks at him dubiously, but then the wind gusts through them again and he starts shivering violently.

“Maybe another time,” Loki says. Thor’s expression falls a little, so Loki sighs and touches Thor’s elbow. “But thank you.”

Thor doesn’t looks completely convinced and, in all honestly, still looks a bit guilty, but he takes the rejection with grace. Maybe it’s Loki’s imagination, but he seems to relax at the touch.

“Sure,” Thor says with a smile. “Another time.”

  
They part on good terms, Loki thanking Thor for spending time with him, and Thor making Loki promise to text him again the next time he gets bored.

  
It isn’t until Loki gets back to Bucky’s apartment and checks the one bag of things he bought--a pair of socks with an Australian Shepherd dog on it for Sam and an art print of numbers for himself--that he sees an unfamiliar crinkly, brown paper bag tucked near the back.

Puzzled, he takes it out and unfolds the top.

Inside is a gingerbread man. He lets out a puff of laughter and smiles.

  
“Mr. Loki,” Vali wails on the couch the next afternoon, after school. “This is too hard! My fingers hurt!”

“Stop whining,” Loki drawls, flipping through a magazine while Vali alternates between strumming the C and D chords for the 1200th time. “My ears hurt, but you don’t hear me complaining.”

Vali stops and stares at him.

“You’ve been complaining for the last hour! All you’ve done is complain!”

“That is because you’ve been playing the same two chords for the past hour,” Loki says, staring at him. “And poorly.”

“My fingers are going to fall off,” Vali grouses. He returns to looking at the guitar perched in his little arms.

“One can only hope,” Loki mutters. He frowns and reads an article about a recent NASA trip to Jupiter.

“I regret everything,” Vali sighs. He sounds every bit the sulky teenager he will be in three years time.

“Can relate,” Loki says. He flips the page and looks up at Vali. “Again.”

Vali pouts and strums the C and D chords again.

  
Ten minutes later, something clicks for him, and he finally manages to play them correctly. His face lights up as he looks up at Loki for affirmation.

Loki doesn’t say anything, but above the top of his magazine, Vali can definitely see the smile.

  
The next day, Loki gets back from yoga to a text from Thor.

 **Thor:** Board games tonight!

Loki considers doing the safe thing and not answering or saying he’s busy or come down with the Avian flu. Instead, he does what he always does, and makes the stupid decision.

 **Loki:** Ok.

  
Thor lives in a nice, large apartment on the third floor of a five story walk up off of Union Square. Loki brings a nice bottle of wine, because, never having been to a board game night, he doesn’t know what one brings to a night of adults playing board games. Wine is always a safe and popular choice.

When Thor opens the door, it’s clear he’s expecting someone else because his expression goes from ambivalent to veritably lighting up.

“Loki!” he says. “You came!”

“You did invite me,” Loki says. “Twice.”

“I didn’t think you were gonna come,” Thor admits.

“A question,” Loki says, a wry smile on his face. “If I hadn’t shown up, would you have shown up in my elevator instead?”

Thor blinks and gives him a sheepish grin.

“I thought so,” Loki says and shoves the wine bottle at him.

  
Thor introduces Loki to a room of his friends. Loki isn’t amazing with people, preferring the company of animals to humans in almost every possible situation, but Thor’s friends don’t immediately spit on him, which he supposes is a positive development.

“Loki, this is Sif, Volstagg, Fandral, and Hogun,” Thor says. Sitting around Thor’s rectangular kitchen table is a beautiful woman with short, dark hair, a rather larger and jolly looking man with a red beard, a blond with questionable facial hair, and an Asian man who looks either indifferent or halfway asleep. “Guys, this is Loki.”

“So you’re the one Thor can’t shut up about,” Volstagg says with a grin.

Loki raises an eyebrow at Thor. The latter turns a little pink and throws a glare at his old friend.

“Hopefully only bad things,” Loki says smoothly, taking a seat next to Fandral.

“Bad things?” Fandral exclaims. “My friend, I think Thor thinks the sun shines out of your ass.”

“ _Fandral!_ ” Thor splutters.

“It’s true,” Sif says. She has a beer in front of her that she’s already halfway through. “Jane called me the other day and asked if Thor had a boyfriend she should know about.”

Thor turns positively red at that and even Loki feels himself warm around the ears, despite his amusement.

“This is like high school all over again,” Thor complains. He brings a bowl of chips and sets it down in the middle of the table. There’s already some kind of dip next to it. Volstagg reaches for the chips immediately.

“Oh no,” Sif says. “We were much worse in high school.”

“Who could blame us?” Fandral says, with a chuckle. “He was in love with a new girl every week.”

“Not _every_ week,” Thor grumbles.

“Every other week then,” Volstagg says, reasonably, mouth full of Dorito.

Next to him, Hogun makes a sound. It could be affirmation or a little snore. It’s unclear which.

“Quite the lady’s man?” Loki asks. Thor sets a glass of wine in front of him and he looks up, thanking him.

“And the men’s man,” Fandral says with a wink.

“It’s not nice to out people to strangers,” Sif says, taking another gulp.

“The man has the bisexual flag on his mantle,” Fandral points out. Loki looks to where Fandral is gesturing and, sure enough, above a fake fireplace, next to an assortment of pictures, Thor has both the rainbow flag and the bisexual flag, proudly displayed.

“Enough,” Thor declares. “Are we going to play or are we going to sit around discussing my sex life all night?”

For one, uneasy moment--uneasy for Thor, not for everyone else--the rest of the table eyes him with wavering interest.

“ _No_ ,” Thor says and everyone bursts out laughing. Even Hogun makes a little snorting sound. Although it could have also been another small snore. Really, it’s unclear.

  
They play cards first -- three rounds of Asshole (Thor is the Asshole every time, much to Loki’s amusement), two rounds of Bullshit (which Loki handily wins, smugly), and one round of Egyptian ratscrew (only one round because everyone’s hands are far too sore after it). They move on to some game called Settlers of Catan that Loki has never played, that he proves rather good at after they play a pity-practice round for his sake. The second round, Loki forms an unbelievable alliance with Sif that leaves the rest of the table looking at them uneasily. Both Loki and Sif smirk, both at each other, and then the rest of the table.

They take a break in between for pizza and more wine and beer. At some point, Fandral and Volstagg get into an argument about flying cars or something equally absurd. Loki, who is picking at a slice of pizza and petting Hela, who has crawled up into his lap, with his free hand, looks up at Thor with a raised eyebrow. Thor laughs and shrugs, as though he, too, cannot explain his friends. Sif looks at both of them with interest and continues to drink her beer.

  
After that, they play pictionary, which nearly every single person proves to be terrible at, either because no one can draw or because everyone is too many bottles of beer in, it’s hard to say. It’s when Volstagg suggests Risk that the night comes to a grinding halt.

“No!” Thor and Fandral shout at the same time.

Hela perks up from where she had almost been asleep next to Loki.

“Why not?” Volstagg looks around, eyes glazed over, offended.

“The last time we played Risk, Sif did not speak to us for a month,” Fandral says.

“You were cheating,” Sif growls. She bangs her beer bottle on the table. “You were all _cheating_!”

“I wasn’t cheating! I would never cheat! Upon my mother’s honor!” Volstagg roars and the four of them start arguing with each other.

In his seat, Loki sips on his third glass of wine and watches the arguing, Hela contributing by barking in the background, deeply amused. Thor and Fandral are vehemently yelling at each other and Loki is eyeing them both when, suddenly, he feels a hand on his shoulder.

He startles and looks over at Hogun, who is blinking.

“Scoot your chair back,” is all he says.

“Have you been awake this entire time?” Loki inquires, but does as he’s told.

Sure enough, thirty seconds later, Volstagg upends the entire table, board game pieces and all, with a roar.

Next to Loki, Hogun chuckles.

Or maybe he makes little sleepy noises. Honestly, who can really say?

  
Around one in the morning, Fandral is asleep on Thor’s couch, Volstagg is asleep under the dining room table, Hogun has disappeared, and Sif puts on her coat to leave.

“What a mess you all are,” she says with fond disgust. She kisses Thor on both cheeks. “Thank you, old friend.”

“Get home safe,” Thor says, warmly.

“Loki,” Sif says, nodding toward Loki.

“Sif,” Loki says, nodding toward Sif.

“I don’t like this,” Thor declares. Sif throws him a wolfish grin before disappearing back into the night.

Thor closes the door behind her and turns, groaning at the mess inside.

“Do you need help?” Loki asks. And then, realizing the time, “I can leave after we clean.”

“It can wait until tomorrow,” Thor says. He steps over some game pieces to go to the kitchen. He reemerges with another bottle of wine. “Come on.”

 _Come on_ , Loki thinks. Every time Thor says _come on_ , Loki does something else, something he doesn’t mean to, something he would never think to do otherwise. He becomes some alternate version of himself, a person who thinks less and does more. It’s as perplexing and discomfiting as it is thrilling.

So now, when Thor says _come on_ , Loki finds that he can’t not. He picks over game pieces as well and follows him out onto the balcony.

  
Thor leans against the railing, mouth on the bottle of wine, already having popped the cork before he grabbed it. He smiles widely as Loki joins him, close enough to be intimate, but with enough space between them to be appropriate.

“Where was Jane tonight?” Loki asks. He looks out over the railing, breathes in the life and movement of the city, the same way he had the first night here.

“Hm?” Thor asks, swallowing a mouthful of wine. “Oh. I think she’s with Darcy.”

“Darcy?”

“Her sister,” Thor says. “They do something on Friday nights. Something sisterly.”

“You don’t know what?” Loki asks, amused.

“I asked her once,” Thor frowns. “I think. I’m pretty sure I asked her.”

Loki snorts and motions for the bottle. Thor hands it over easily.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Thor says. He seems as though he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He keeps folding them and unfolding them on the ledge. “I thought—” He hesitates.

“Yes?” Loki raises an eyebrow, takes a swig of the wine. It goes down warm and tart, settling to the pool of wine at the bottom of his stomach.

Thor laughs, but it’s a nervous sound, unlike his usual, rumbling confidence.

“I thought you didn’t like me,” he says

“Do you care?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes,” Thor answers easily, the way he answers everything easily, as though confidence comes to him like a second skin.

Loki considers this as he takes another mouthful. His head is warm and fuzzy by now, his limbs loose. He breathes out, as relaxed as Loki can ever get.

“I didn’t,” Loki says. “But it’s not your fault. I don’t like anybody, normally.”

“High standards?” Thor jokes.

Loki’s not in the mood for his usual half-lies, apparently because he hands the bottle back to Thor wordlessly.

“Defense mechanism,” he says. “Or so the therapist I saw in high school told me. I have anxiety, depression, antisocial disorder, bipolar disorder, any and every ailment they could think of to explain behavior that could have just as easily been explained by _this kid has had a shitty life.”_

Loki hasn’t had a smoke in years, but he could really use one, if he’s going to confess his soul to this veritable stranger tonight.

“I’m sorry,” Thor says after a moment. “Was it all terrible?”

“Most of it,” Loki says. “But not all.”

Thor doesn’t say anything for a moment, just drinks more wine. Then he scoots just a little closer and nudges Loki’s shoulder.

“I had a foster brother once,” Loki sighs. “He may have been the only person to have ever cared about me. He taught me how to read and write music.”

Thor swallows, hands the bottle back.

“What do you play?”

“A few things. But the guitar’s my favorite,” Loki says with a small smile. “Although I haven’t for a long while. Well, apart from this afternoon.”

“What happened this afternoon?” Thor asks. He turns toward Loki, apparently trying not to look too eager and almost failing.

Loki hesitates.

“Sorry,” Thor says immediately. “You don’t have to tell me.”

Loki tips back the bottle and takes two huge gulps. He’s going to have a massive hangover in the morning and, for once, he doesn’t particularly care.

“Vali,” he says. “I’m teaching him.”

Thor gapes at him.

“He’s a lonely kid in a strange foster situation who just wants someone and something good to connect to,” Loki says, maybe a little defensively. “I can’t say I’ve never been in that position.”

The expression on Thor’s face is—something Loki doesn’t have the mental capacity to interpret right now.

“You really are a nice one,” Thor says with a grin after a minute.

“Shut up,” Loki say, petulantly. “Am not. Am mean and miserable and unlovable.”

Thor takes in a breath at that, turns to face Loki, really face him.

“Who the fuck told you that?” Thor demands.

Loki grumbles and drinks some more to avoid answering.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Thor says, and he sounds as angry and annoyed as he looks. “Of all of the stupid things I’ve heard.”

Loki nudges his side with his elbow and the bottle.

“Drink.”

Thor swears and does. He drains half the remaining wine and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. It seems to calm him down a little. Or maybe he just thinks he’ll scare Loki if he shows the extent of his hand.

“Can I help?” he asks after a moment.

“Mm?”

“With the kid,” Thor says.

“Oh,” Loki answers, drunkenly. He pats Thor’s massive arm. “Yes. He would like that. That is very nice of you. You’re very nice, Thor—?”

“Odinson.” Thor’s smile is sweet and pleased.

“Yes you are,” Loki declares.

Thor laughs, leans into Loki’s side.

“You make me laugh,” Thor says, warmly. “And you’re sarcastic as hell and cynical and strange and completely smitten with this kid even though you won’t admit it.”

“You make me sound like someone worth knowing,” Loki grumbles. He feels relaxed and warm. Content, even. The closest facsimile to happy he can get.

“You are,” Thor says immediately, without waiting a beat, as though it’s no question to him at all.

“I don’t understand you,” Loki says after staring at him a moment. “How can you be so sure?”

Thor squints at the traffic in the distance.

“Of what?”

“Everything,” Loki says, expansively.

Thor just laughs at that.

“I’m not. I used to be, when I was younger,” Thor says. “I was confident to a fault. Sif called me arrogant so many times and I was too arrogant to listen to her, obviously. But...I learned not to be, when my father stopped speaking to me. It taught me what it meant to sacrifice something you love for something else you love. It hurt me and I learned from it.”

Loki watches Thor from the corner of his eyes.

“I know what I want and I take it now, within reason,” Thor says. “The difference is I’m aware of consequences now and I know how to weather them.”

Loki considers this.

“And if the consequences are too big to bear?” he asks.

Thor quiets at that, thinking.

“Then I have to either bear it anyway or choose another option,” he says after a moment. “Either way, it’s my choice and I will not be apologetic about that.”

“Spoken like a man who has always had a choice,” Loki says, raising the bottle. Thor chuckles and takes it from him.

“I admit, I do come from privilege,” he says. “I try to remember that. Sometimes I’m even successful.”

They drink in silence for a few easy, comfortable minutes.

“What about you?” Thor asks. “What would you do if you could bear any consequences?”

Loki’s first thought is--Baldur. He would love, he would choose Baldur, he would choose him over Nanna, over his child, over what would surely be Loki’s heartbreak every single day. But that’s a stupid answer, an easy one, and Loki looks at Thor and tries to think differently. He tries to think outside of his immediate, selfish needs, try to see the bigger picture the way this strange, curious man does.

“I would sing,” Loki says, quirking a half-smile.

“Sing,” Thor repeats. Then, “What’s stopping you?”

Loki gives him a smile, all teeth and no warmth.

“Myself,” he says. He gives the bottle back to Thor. Or he tries. What happens instead is a half-measure, a movement forward, half aborted, half in motion. The bottle, and his hand, rest so close to Thor’s own that they touch.

They look at one another, at the air and space shared between them.

“You deserve more than you allow yourself,” Thor says, softly.

“I deserve exactly what I’ve gotten,” Loki replies, after a breath.

A brief, cool gust of wind blows between them and Loki shivers. His hair, pulled back into a bun and falling loose, strays into his face. Thor reaches forward, fingertips on the bridge of Loki’s nose, on the arch of his cheeks, moves stray strands back behind his ear.

“You lean toward me when you are sincere. You take a breath before you tell me a half-truth,” Thor says. “That’s how I know you’re lying.”

Loki stills, stunned.

“You think before you speak,” Thor continues. “You choose every word deliberately, as though examining the options and consequences and picking the one that best suits you. It makes you reserved, but insightful.”

Loki warms, swallows. Thor’s thumb rests against a warm cheek.

“I don’t think you’re all sharp edges, Loki,” Thor says and finally moves away. He cocks his head toward him with a smile. “But I like the parts of you that are. And I like the parts of you that aren’t. I like all the parts of you I’ve seen.”

“You don’t even know me,” Loki murmurs, cheeks warm, but he doesn’t sound convinced.

He thinks of Thor’s words and they heat him and chill him, make him feel starkly visible when all he’s ever known is how to disappear. He takes a breath and Thor notices. He chooses to think and Thor is aware. Sometimes, Thor’s overly confident steering is better than anything Loki could have chosen for himself. It’s possible, he thinks, briefly, that Thor, somehow, is getting to know Loki better than Loki knows himself.

“You took a breath,” Thor says after a moment and laughs. He closes what space remains between their shoulders and Loki feels overwhelmingly warm on his right side, and in his chest and, frankly, all over.

  
They talk and laugh, leaning against each other, drinking in one another’s warmth, for longer than either of them notice. It’s only when Loki’s head starts to drift onto Thor’s shoulder and Thor gently shakes him that he realizes the sun is rising.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Thor sighs quietly, watching the sun slowly set alight New York City skyscrapers, peaches and soft pinks glancing off of glass buildings as far as the eye can see.

Loki, sleepy and relaxed, looks up at Thor. There’s a fuzzy halo around his head where the rising sun hits his golden hair. His eyes, a bright, bright blue, glow in the brightening light.

“Yes,” he says, not really realizing what he’s talking about. “Beautiful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing The Christmas Chapter and it's.....18,000 words. I haven't decided whether to mess with my posting schedule and post it on Christmas Eve, instead of Saturday, so it can be Most Relevant or just post as regularly scheduled. 
> 
> But, to reiterate. 18,000 words. Just something to consider.


	9. The Feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wakes up with a nose nudged into the middle of his back. At first he grumbles, thinking it’s Tom and then he remembers he’s in England and it’s probably Riley. Then, after a moment of his brain beginning to function, he realizes that Riley’s nose is small and cold and wet and the nose nudging him is warm and dry and accompanied by a thick, bare arm encircling his waist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Ninth Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, a human disaster who goes by the name of Bucky.

Bucky wakes up with a nose nudged into the middle of his back. At first he grumbles, thinking it’s Tom and then he remembers he’s in England and it’s probably Riley. Then, after a moment of his brain beginning to function, he realizes that Riley’s nose is small and cold and wet and the nose nudging him is warm and dry and accompanied by a thick, bare arm encircling his waist.

Bucky shifts onto his back and Steve’s face nestles more comfortably into the space between his neck and shoulder. Bucky’s heart flutters traitorously and he puts a hand to that blond hair, brushes some semblance of order back into it with his fingers. Steve stirs awake a bare minute later. Bucky can tell because his breathing picks up and he shifts, pressing kisses into Bucky’s neck and shoulder, which tickle and make him puff out a breath of laughter.

“Good morning,” he says in a drawl, warm and lethargic after what he remembers to be a night of spectacular, and repeated, sex.

“Five more minutes,” Steve grumbles and shifts back closer, until Bucky’s left arm is squashed under hot, tantalizingly defined abs.

Bucky pokes Steve’s side with his free hand.

“Ten more minutes,” Steve protests, burying his face further into the warmth of Bucky’s neck. Bucky laughs again.

“We have to get out of bed, Steve,” he says.

“Says who?” Steve mumbles. “Who are you, the bed police?”

Bucky chuckles, runs his fingers through Steve’s hair again.

“I really wouldn’t have pegged you for the late riser,” Bucky says.

“Why’s that?” Steve asks.

“You have the energy of a six year old,” Bucky says. “Multiple six year olds. I get exhausted just looking at you.”

“Trust me,” Steve says into Bucky’s shoulder. He presses a kiss there, just because the opportunity presents itself. “No one has the energy of a six year old. Except a two year old.”

“Everything after seven was downhill,” Bucky agrees, sagely.

This makes Steve laugh and finally shift over. He doesn’t move far, just rests his arms and elbows on Bucky’s chest and looks down at him through his absurdly long eyelashes. He gives Bucky a sleepy, fond, thoroughly content look, which, Bucky reminds himself, he probably is, because of the aforementioned spectacular sex.

“Hey,” he says. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says with a smile. “Here, in the bed I’m sleeping in. Weird.”

“What sleeping?” Steve grins. “I remember a lot of things, but sleeping isn’t one of them.”

“Yeah?” Bucky slides his hand down from Steve’s hair to cup the back of his neck. “What kinda things?”

“You don’t remember?” Steve asks.

“I have a faulty memory,” Bucky says. He slides his hand farther down Steve’s back, fingertips feeling every dip and divot of muscle along the way. He sees the ripple of a shiver go through Steve and warmth starts pooling in his belly again.

“Want me to describe it to you?” Steve asks. He moves his arms so he’s shifted off of Bucky’s chest and more properly hovering over Bucky’s body, propped up on elbows to either side of his head.

“I’m more of an experiential learner,” Bucky smirks.

“Oh,” Steve says. He dips his head and presses an open-mouthed kiss slowly to the underside of Bucky’s jaw. Bucky’s pulse lurches at the touch. “In that case--” He presses a kiss underneath that spot and then, once more, another one just underneath. “--I could show you--” He’s at Bucky’s pulse point now. He lays a hot kiss there, nips at skin. Bucky barely swallows a curse. “--if you’d like.”

Bucky’s fingers dig in desperately to Steve’s heated skin, his nails digging half moons into the muscles on Steve’s lower back. His other hand digs into the side of Steve’s hip.

“Uhhh,” Bucky manages, intelligently.

Steve laughs lowly, the rumble moving in vibrations across Bucky’s skin. He nudges Bucky’s jaw to the side with his nose, raises a hand without losing his balance, and guides Bucky’s mouth back down to his with purpose. They kiss slowly, hungrily, the heat and electricity of it nearly driving Bucky out of his mind. Every time he tries to speed it up, sucking desperately at Steve’s tongue, Steve laughs, pulls back, slows them back down.

“You’re killing me,” Bucky nearly pants into his mouth. He’s aching and he’s barely been touched.

“Let me take care of you,” Steve says, kissing him gently, sweetly even.

Bucky’s hand finally wanders down to Steve’s ass.

“Bucky,” Steve admonishes, but it’s really not much of an admonishment at all, because it’s a bite at his lips that fulfills at least some of the friction Bucky’s seeking. Bucky makes an embarrassing, needy sound.

Steve chuckles. He holds Bucky down, one arm across his chest, his free hand scraping down Bucky’s stomach, all rough fingertips and sharp nails, and going dangerously low.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky curses, trying to buck up into Steve’s touch, but not being allowed to do so. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Rogers.”

Steve laughs, all pleased and evil and rumbly, and kisses him again.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Steve repeats.

“Okay. Fine,” Bucky relents, because his brain has stopped functioning again and he has some pressing _needs_ Steve is refusing to fulfill. The bossy asshole. “How?’

Steve grins against Bucky’s mouth.

“Turn over.”

  
Once he has been thoroughly fucked and blissed out, again, Bucky allows Steve to drag him into the shower. Bucky’s body is honestly too exhausted for a round four (or is it five?), but they do make out lazily under the water, which is almost as nice. Steve doesn’t give Bucky much room to think, which is wonderful, but the few wisps of thought that escape anyway are confused and hesitant, wondering why this feels so different from any time he was with Dottie, asking why he could only spend an afternoon or night with her and happily part ways, but why, with this stupid, beautiful, stubborn blond he just met, he can’t seem to tear himself away long enough to even think about missing him. The wisps are dangerously close to things he shouldn’t be thinking about, so it’s just as well that Steve is such a good and thorough kisser that every time Bucky comes close, he loses his train of thought after Steve does something absurdly hot with his tongue.

By the time they manage to step out, dry, and clothe themselves, it’s nearly noon.

“I am _starving_ ,” Bucky says.

“Well I’m shocked. You’re never hungry,” Steve says. He opens the cupboard to take Riley’s food out. “Do you have plans?”

“Yeah, Steve,” Bucky says, leaning against the counter. “You’re the only person I know here, but I definitely have a lotta plans.”

Steve snorts. He squats to pour Riley’s food into his bowl. The dog, who’s lapping at his fresh bowl of water happily, gives him an appreciative bark and barely waits for Steve to finish before attacking the kernels.

“Got a real mouth on you for a guy who only has one friend here,” Steve says.

“You know what kind of a mouth I got on me,” Bucky says with an exaggerated wink and Steve laughs loudly.

“Okay, Romeo,” Steve says. “As tempting as that is, I’m afraid another round would break you. So how about some food and--a movie?”

“You don’t know my body,” Bucky says, but pushes himself off the counter. Steve’s smirk is deadly and Bucky chooses to promptly ignore it. “Movie?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, straightening with a different kind of smile. “My favorite theater’s showing a double feature of old Disney classics. It’s Fantasia and the Lady and the Tramp today. I was going to go, if you’d maybe want to join me?”

Bucky hasn’t seen an old Disney movie in years. In fact, he can’t remember the last time he watched a Disney movie at all. Or, he thinks shamefully, any movie, really. It’s only now occurring to him, in brief flashes, what kind of a feelingless void he’s fallen into the last few years.

“Why not?” Bucky says. “I’ve never seen Fantasia.”

“Wait, really?” Steve asks. His face brightens in a way that Bucky’s beginning to recognize as Steve Rogers being Steve Rogers about something that’s completely Steve Rogers. “Are you serious? It’s a classic. It’s one of the first and most beautiful mixtures of cartoon, color, and music. It has its problems, but thinking about it, about the time this came out--I mean it was revolutionary. There was nothing like it at its time, you can’t discount that. The new one was fun, but it’s out of place. It doesn’t capture the same depth of character and magic as the original.”

Bucky blinks at this, at Steve’s voice getting a little louder with each word, his face more and more eager.

“There was a...new one?” Bucky ventures to ask.

Steve’s face hardens.

“Get your coat, we’re going to watch some movies.”

  
The theater Steve takes them to is a small one, a fifteen minute drive from the cottage. It’s nestled next to a bakery that has reindeer and wreath cookies in the window and a small cake display that has fake, glittery snow scattered around. The theater itself, although tiny, is charming, with the scent of popcorn mixing with something distinctly _holiday_ , which could be the tiny tree in the corner or the wreaths and popcorn garlands strung about or just the smell of freshly baked gingerbread cookies wafting in from next door.

The carpet is a plush, a deep, old red, like a movie theater out of the 1950s, and the usher is a college-aged boy dressed in slacks and a black suit vest. He takes their coats and greets Steve by name. It’s weird, but utterly pleasant, to have someone else be recognized for a change.

“Didn’t know I was with a famous person,” Bucky says, snickering at his own words. Steve rolls his eyes and nudges his side.

Bucky’s so hungry at this point that he’s nearly wilting. He grabs Steve’s arm.

“ _Steve_ ,” he whines. “ _Popcorn_.”

Steve chuckles and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“No, come inside.”

Bucky’s about to protest the ever-living hell out of this order, but Steve steers him inside before he can think twice about it.

“You got some nerve, pal,” Bucky grumbles and he actually mostly means it because there’s no way in hell he can pay attention to some old movie when his stomach is eating itself.

“I can’t believe how impatient you are,” Steve says. He pushes a menu toward Bucky. “It’s one of those dine-in theaters, Buck. You just write your order down and put it up here and they’ll bring you your food before or during the movie.”

Bucky stares at him, stares at the menu, then back at him.

“Wow, I think I love you,” Bucky says. He says it before he can think about what he’s actually saying and once he’s said it he’s so surprised with himself, he actually stops talking altogether. _I like you a whole lot_ , his own voice echoes through his ears.

Luckily, Steve seems to understand it’s just a phrase because he snorts and starts filling out his own order.

Bucky orders chicken nachos, a burger without lettuce, because he hates lettuce, a bag of chips (sorry, crisps), a brownie, and an extra large Coke.

Steve sees his order and snickers and Bucky barely gets a chance to elbow him in the side before the movie begins.

  
It’s been a long time since Bucky Barnes has been to the movie theater, not to watch one of his own films or to support a film of a friend, but just to the movie theater, to watch a movie, for the joy of watching. It’s been a long time since he was taken out of his own head, transported to another world altogether, to enjoy the beauty of another place, to love characters and people he’s never met. Bucky Barnes has starred in a lot of movies in the past few years, but he’s forgotten what it’s like to love movies.

Fantasia is startlingly beautiful, even for someone who’s never really preferred cartoons. It’s funny and sweeping and old in a way that’s timeless. It’s enthralling and makes Bucky happy, actually _happy_ , and he can’t help but lean over, whisper observations and things he likes to Steve from time to time. He can’t stop himself. When something occurs to him, he wants Steve to know. When something makes his breath catch, he wants to share with Steve. When he finds a part funny or beautiful or sad, he wants to look over and make sure Steve feels the same way. Steve, for his part, doesn’t seem to mind. The few times Bucky looks over at him, catches glimpses of his face illuminated by the glow of the movie screen, Steve’s face is shining. He loves this thing and it shows, nearly exudes from every pore.

By the time Fantasia finishes, Bucky’s heart is pounding. He reaches over between their seats and Steve, smiling, takes his hand.

They watch the Lady and the Tramp in much the same way, whispering and laughing, and holding hands the entire time. Bucky watches the scene with the spaghetti and imagines doing the same with Steve, the two of them sharing one long piece, their mouths meeting in the middle. He grins a little goofily just at the thought and wonders when he turned into this laughing, grinning, heart-pattering cliche.

  
At the end of the movie, Steve looks over to him and his eyes are shining with unspoken emotion.

“What’d you think?” Steve asks, his face nearly breaking with the wide smile on it.

“I loved it,” Bucky says. His heart skips again and he tries to contain it. I love _it_ , the movie, the animation, the time we had together. _It_. Very specifically. Very certain pronoun. An inanimate object. A time. It. “I haven’t had that much fun in a long time.”

Steve beams.

“It reminded me how much I love the movies.” Bucky, suddenly, is overcome with emotion. He swallows thickly. “It reminded me why I love acting.”

“I’d like to see you sometime,” Steve says. “Whatever you’re in or have been in. I want to see you doing the thing you love.”

And Bucky could tell him right now, could so easily open up to Steve right then. He almost does, taking in a shaky breath, preparing to confess. That he’s been lying to Steve. That while Steve has so easily shared every part of himself, Bucky’s only kept and kept, to and for what purpose, he’s not certain, but is almost definitely selfish and self-preserving.

“Steve,” he starts, heart pounding.

Just then, Steve’s pocket buzzes. He finally lets go of Bucky’s hand and fishes it out. Bucky doesn’t see the picture, but he sees the name flash on the screen-- _Sarah <3_. With a heart after.

“Oh, sorry,” Steve says, apologetically. Maybe Bucky’s reading too much into this, but the brightness in Steve’s voice is clear to him. There’s a shift in Steve that Bucky can’t quite place, but knows enough to notice. “I need to take this. Give me a minute.”

He steps out and, just like that, Bucky’s optimism and the tight, overwhelming, thick feeling in his chest deflate. He lets out a breath and sags into the theater seat. He runs a hand over his face.

“Sharon,” he mutters to himself. “Sarah.”

Steve Rogers is too good to be true. Bucky knows that almost for a fact. And when something is too good to be true, it almost certainly is. That, Bucky learned a long time ago, with _him_. When _he_ had taken Bucky’s heart and shredded it to pieces in between hands Bucky had so unquestioningly trusted. Bucky had made himself a promise, a long time ago, that he wouldn’t let that happen to himself again. Not then, when he was just Bucky, and certainly not now, when he’s Bucky Barnes.

  
When Steve doesn’t come back for almost five minutes, Bucky finally gets up. By now, the magic’s worn off and he’s feeling embarrassed and peevish. He gets out to the lobby and Steve’s still talking on the phone, laughing into it. His expression is soft, infatuated. It’s love, what’s on his face. Even Bucky, with all of his emotional hang ups, can see that.

Bucky’s stomach churns. Steve sees him and brightens. He says his goodbyes and pockets the phone.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Just had to take care of something.”

“Hey, no problem,” Bucky says, distantly.

“I’m so glad you liked that,” Steve says. “It means a lot to me that you came, Bucky.”

Bucky stares at him and tries to swallow the hurt. This was his fault for being so stupid anyway. What was he thinking?

“Of course,” Bucky says.

“I know you ate half of the menu, but I’m guessing you’re hungry again,” Steve says, grinning. He puts his hands in his pockets.

“I’m actually okay,” Bucky says.

Steve gives him a strange look, but just says “Okay.”

  
They walk out of the theater and--it’s snowing. Of course it’s snowing. Bucky and Steve turn their faces up toward the sky, the dark of the early evening framed by softly-lit, street gas lamps and Christmas lights strung across the outside of the bakery and theater. The smell of snow is in the air as it falls, fresh and clean, wet and powdery. The cold, white falls in gentle flakes and, instinctively, Bucky closes his eyes and opens his mouth to taste.

To his right, there comes gentle laughter.

Bucky looks over and Steve is doing the exact same thing, glowing, beautiful face illuminated, mouth open to snow, snowflakes falling on a pink tongue and long, light blond eyelashes. He’s stunning, a vision to behold. Something in Bucky’s chest tightens and loosens at the same time.

“I’m a little tired,” Bucky says, quietly. “Is it okay if I go home?”

“Oh.” Steve says. He’s confused and disappointed, maybe a little hurt. Bucky swallows past it. “Okay, sure.”

The drive back to the cottage is quiet. Not tense, but maybe a little unsettled, a little confused. Steve parks outside of the gate, turns to Bucky.

“Buck,” he starts and Bucky shakes his head.

He has to look somewhere else, at Steve’s right ear, to get it out.

“Steve, I don’t think we should see each other again,” he says.

“What?” Steve definitely looks and sounds hurt and confused this time. “I don’t understand. I thought you had a good time.”

“I did,” Bucky says. His voice is shallow even to his own ears. “Fuck, I did. But--listen, you live here and I live in New York and I’m here for less than a month, Steve. I have a week left and then I’m gone and you’re still here and then what? I just got out of a relationship and I don’t know you and you _definitely_ don’t know me and. It’s better that way. I promise. Can you understand that? We can be friends.”

Never in the history of the universe have any pair of exes actually remained friends. This much, Bucky is positive.

Steve looks at him with all of the devastation of someone who’s been crushed with little to no warning.

“Did I do something? Talk to me, Bucky. This isn’t like you--”

“You don’t _know_ what I’m like, Steve,” Bucky says, loudly. “You’ve known me what, a week? You don’t know _anything_ about who I am. I’m--I don’t know how to do this. I’m a shitty boyfriend and a shitty friend and I spiral? All the time. I lie, I’ve been lying to you and you don’t even know it because you don’t know _me_ . I eat fast food like three times a day when I’m depressed and I’ve been depressed for maybe the past two? Three years? I’ve seen like five different therapists and none of them can figure out how to fix me. I’m bisexual and only two people in my life know because I’m too much of a coward to tell anyone else. My insides are just congealed grease. I couldn’t tell my girlfriend of _three years_ that I loved her because I got my heart broken in high school and I never recovered and I’ve never been able to tell anyone I love them again, except maybe my sister and even then I don’t know if I mean it or if I know how to mean it. I’m no good for you, Steve. I’m no good for anyone.”

Steve’s face twists in pain. He looks like he’s going to cry. He reaches forward and Bucky shakes his head, undoes his seatbelt.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, thickly. “Thank you for a great time, really. I needed someone to take my mind off of things back home and you did and now it’s time for me to go back and face it like an adult. I’m grateful to you, really. If you’re ever in New York, please look me up. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“Bucky, please, stop--” Steve tries again, but Bucky’s pushed the door open. He’s out the door, through the gate, shuffling up the path to the cottage. He manages to get inside the door and slam it shut before thudding back against it and sliding down the door to the ground.

“Fuck,” Bucky curses. He pulls his knees up to his chest and it’s so stupid, how crushed he _himself_ feels. He covers his face with his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bucky feels the hot, dense feeling spread through his chest, like a thick, suffocating molasses. He chokes on it, trying to swallow it back.

“ _Fuck_.” He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes. They’re wet. Stars explode into the dark and still he presses in them harder and harder, reeling from all of this feeling, trying to feel nothing and feeling nothing but regret instead.

Riley barks at him, concerned.

Suddenly, his phone starts to buzz and Bucky _knows_ it’s Steve, _knows_ he should ignore it, but he fumbles it out anyway.

Maybe he’ll take it back. Maybe he’ll tell Steve he was just tired and had a breakdown and he didn’t mean any of it. Maybe Steve will take him to dinner, look at him with those blue eyes, and tell him that it’s all right, that it’s all going to be _all right_.

Bucky looks at his phone, before realizing his vision is blurry with tears. He wipes them away angrily and looks at the screen.

It’s not Steve at all. It’s no one. It’s a news alert from TMZ.

 

_Dottie Underwood and Mystery Man revealed! Weeks after her shocking break up with Bucky Barnes,  
Ms. Underwood is seen kissing Howard Stark, says she’s over-the-moon in love. _

“ _Fuck_!” Bucky shouts and throws his phone across the room.

It hits the tree, which sways dangerously. Three ornaments fall off and smash on the ground.

Bucky curls up on himself, tips over, and just lays there. Riley comes and noses at him, whines at him, and when he’s still unresponsive, just lays beside him, trying to offer him warmth and companionship and comfort in the way only dogs know how. Even that doesn’t help. Nothing actually helps.

Bucky falls asleep like that, miserable, heartbroken, and shivering in the cold.

  
The next day passes sluggish and in a bit of a numb, depressed blur. He’s afraid to look at his phone after that alert, but either Natasha or Becca told everyone to fuck off, because he doesn’t receive a single sympathetic text, to his great relief.  
  
He drinks a lot and tries to examine how he feels about the news in his mind, turning it over objectively and--he’s surprised to find that it’s okay. It’s a little humiliating and the timing isn’t great, but he finds he doesn’t actually care, beyond the shock of it. Dottie’s moving on with her life, as she’s earned, and Bucky is--well, he’s happy for her, to the extent that he can bring himself to care about her at all. Which makes him sound like an asshole, but, well, he keeps replaying last night in the car and Steve’s heartbroken face in his head repeatedly and he can’t become more of an asshole than that, anyway.

  
The day after, he manages to get his shit together enough to take Riley for a walk. He’s so out of his mind sick of himself that he walks him for longer than usual. They end up in town, somehow. Bucky avoids the pub, just in case Steve’s there, although he somehow knows he won’t be. Bucky has to stop himself from thinking about where Steve might be, right now, what he might be thinking, whether he’s gone to Sharon or to Sarah to fix what Bucky broke.

“You’re being stupid,” Bucky mutters to himself. “He’s probably fine.”

Riley barks at him disapprovingly.

“What do you know? You’re a dog.”

They walk to a sandwich shop, where Bucky treats himself to an Italian panini, even though he doesn’t really deserve it. He’s eating and walking when Riley starts going crazy. He barks loudly and repeatedly and starts pulling on the leash.

“What the fuck? Riley. Riley!” Bucky curses as he stumbles and the leash gets away from him. Riley bounds away from him and Bucky drops his sandwich to run to catch him.

Riley runs right up to a man who’s looking in through a shop window. He turns his head and looks confused for a beat before he brightens.

“Riles!” the man squats down and Riley nearly bowls him over with barks and licks. The man laughs, patting his head and his side and Riley gives him so many kisses, he nearly falls over onto the concrete.

“What the fuck?” Bucky catches up to the dog, a little out of breath, embarrassingly. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

The man looks up from Riley and blinks. Then he straightens with an easy grin.

“Hey, man,” he says, extending a hand. “You must be Bucky.”

Bucky looks at him quizzically.

“Sam,” the man says. “Sam Wilson. I usually live in the cottage you’re staying at?”

“Oh, shit,” Bucky says. “No wonder Riley went crazy.”

Sam laughs.

“Yeah, he’s affectionate.” Riley barks in response. “I’ve had him since I moved here. He’s attached.”

“Traitor,” Bucky eyes the dog and the dog barks at him happily.

Sam laughs.

“What are you doing here?” Bucky asks. “You need to stay at the cottage? I don’t mind. It’s yours, after all.”

“No, I’m just here on an errand,” Sam says. “I was gonna text you so I could see Riles, but you saved me the trouble.”

Bucky looks past Sam at the shop he was just going into and--raises an eyebrow.

“Congratulations?”

Sam laughs again. He laughs a lot, an easy, breezy sound, like everything falls onto his shoulders and then slides right off. Bucky’s shoulders relax. He likes him immediately.

“Yeah, thanks,” he says. “Claire’s more or less told me what rings she likes and I found the perfect one in there. Been eyeing it for weeks and figured with Christmas coming up--”

“Wow,” Bucky says and Sam looks embarrassed in good nature.

“I know,” Sam says. “I know, I know. I’m a goddamned cliche. But, when you know, you know.”

“Is that a real thing?” Bucky asks. “When you know you know?”

“Trust me,” Sam says and Bucky does. He really does. “When you know, you know.”

“And you know?” Bucky asks.

Sam grins. “Do I ever know.”

Riley wags his tail in agreement.

“Do you have some time?” Bucky asks. “Wanna grab a drink?”

Sam claps Bucky on the shoulder, like they’ve been best friends all along.

“You know, I never say no to a drink.”

  
They go to Steve’s favorite bar, which makes Bucky nervous for a moment before he looks around and sees that it’s pretty empty at this time of day. He tries to ignore the brief, irrational feeling of disappointment that sinks into his stomach.

“So how’s Liverpool been treating you?” Sam asks as soon as they’ve sat down. He unwinds a fuzzy scarf from his neck and takes his gloves off. Riley settles at his feet happily.

“It’s been--” Bucky tries to be mature about this. He’s an actor, surely he can pull off stoic. “Great. I like it a lot.”

“You been to the Beatles Experience?” Sam grins.

“Yeah!” Bucky says. “Steve gave me shit for it, but--”

“Steve?” Sam says, blinking. He looks at Bucky for a second, as though he’s running something through his head. “Holy shit. You’re the one he’s been talking about.”

“He’s been talking about me?” Bucky asks. He definitely Stays Stoic and doesn’t Turn Pink or Sound Eager.

“Not by name,” Sam says. “He’s mentioned someone he’s met a few times. Cryptic shit because he’s Steve Rogers, but completely obvious, ‘cause he’s Steve Rogers.”

Somehow, Bucky knows exactly what Sam means. He laughs.

“I’ve only heard good things,” Sam says. “Honestly, the man thinks he’s being subtle, but he can’t stop talking about you.”

“I don’t know what there is to talk about,” Bucky mutters. He feels a strange mixture of pleased and guilt. His words from the night before echo loudly in his ears.

The bartender looks at the two of them. It’s not Drax this time, but a woman with black hair that slides into a bright magenta. She’s wearing leather and an expression of pure boredom.

“A Carlsberg for me, Gamora,” Sam says. “You guys still have the cookie dough crunch pie?”

“Cookie dough’s not food, Wilson,” Gamora says. She wipes a glass and gives him an unimpressed look.

“It has calories, it’s food,” he grins. Gamora deadpans him. “Fine, give me some dirty fries and loaded potato skins too. And for my friend--”

“Uh, also a Carlsberg?” Bucky says. “And a burger.”

“Sure,” Gamora says. “Get your friend to eat real food.”

She turns away with their order and Bucky raises an eyebrow at Sam.

“It’s a bit we have,” Sam says. “She says I’m gonna die from greasy food and I tell her it’s my right as a blue-blooded American to die however I damn well want.”

Bucky snorts.

“How often you taunt them about the whole American Revolution thing?”

“Every damn day,” Sam says, cheerfully. “They hate me here.”

Bucky laughs. He can’t imagine anyone hating Sam. He’s too damn likeable.

Gamora brings them their beers. Sam grins at her, raises his mug in a cheers. She rolls her eyes and walks away.

Bucky shakes his head and drinks.

“So...have you talked to Steve today?” He doesn’t really know why he asks it, only that it’s a compulsion he can’t quite stop and he’s probably a certifiable masochist. Also, he can’t stop thinking about him and he already misses him entirely too much to be healthy, but Bucky isn’t really healthy anyway and--holy shit. He’s spiraling again. Jesus fucking Christ, it’s been like five minutes.

“No,” Sam says, raising an eyebrow. “Should I have?”

“No,” Bucky says, quickly. “No, I was just wondering.”

“Uh huh,” Sam says. He looks skeptical, which, Bucky supposes, he should be. “So. You and Steve sleeping together?”

Bucky chokes on his beer and starts coughing.

“Relax man,” Sam laughs.

“Did he say that?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Sam snorts. “Steve’s--he’s private about his business. Even to me. But I can tell when something’s happening in his life because the dumb lug is a completely open book. So are you, for that matter.”

Bucky chooses to ignore that.

“Have you seen him?”

“Not in a bit. But I can tell by his texts and his voice when we talk on the phone. He’s...happier. He actually learned how to use emoji.”

“He didn’t know how to use emoji?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, fondly. “He’s a ninety year old man in the body of a thirty two year old.”

Bucky smiles at that, not surprised at that description of Steve. It comports with everything he’s seen of him, although it doesn’t quite match Steve’s exuberance or exhausting level of energy.

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Shoot.” Gamora brings by their food. “Hey! Where’s my pie?”

“Pie isn’t food. They don’t pay me enough to poison you,” Gamora says, before leaving again.

“If I want nutrients, I’ll eat a plant!” Sam yells after her. He immediately grabs a potato skin.

Bucky chuckles and helps himself to one of his own fries.

“Sorry,” Sam said. “Important matters and all. You were gonna ask a question?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He swallows his fry. “I don’t know if I should.”

“In my experience, you never know until you ask,” Sam says.

“Thanks, mom,” Bucky says. He picks at his burger, trying to think of how to phrase it. In the end, he just asks it simple. “Steve. Is he the real deal?”

Sam takes his time answering. He finishes a potato skin and washes it down with some beer.

“Depends on what you mean by the real deal?”

“Is he as good as he seems?” Bucky asks. In his mind he can see Steve’s smile, his generosity, his kindness. He can also see the flash of his phone. The names  _Sharon_ and _Sarah_.

“Steve Rogers is the best damn guy I know,” Sam says. He doesn’t wait a breath. He says it as though it’s a fact, non-negotiable. “He’s the best damn guy I’ve ever met.”

“What’s his story?” Bucky asks. He takes a bite of his burger.

“You sure you don’t want to ask him?”

“I want to know the truth from someone who knows him,” Bucky says.

Maybe it’s not fair, since Bucky’s not offering Steve his truth, but he has to know if this is someone he can trust. He has to know Steve will care for him as Bucky, not as Bucky Barnes, that he won’t go to the blogs after they’re finished, like Dottie did, and like, Bucky suspects, most people would. Maybe it’s not fair to Steve and it’s not fair to Bucky, but this is his reality, the price he paid for pursuing the thing he loved most.

Bucky looks at his glass of beer glumly.

“I don’t know if it’s my place to tell,” Sam says, but Bucky can tell he’s considering. He eats another potato skin and some dirty fries before deciding he’ll offer something.

“Steve was a sick kid. Lost his dad when he was a baby, so he never met him. His Ma was--she had a heart of gold, that woman. Best damn woman I’ve ever met. She worked three jobs taking care of the two of them, until Steve got old enough to hold down a job to help out. He was in and out of the hospital all the time, so she tried to get him to quit, but--well, you try and tell Steve Rogers no.”

Bucky smiles, although barely. He can’t imagine anyone saying no to Steve Rogers, but all of that is masked by what Sam’s telling him. Sam doesn’t have to tell him about Steve’s goodness, that, he’s felt all this time.

“I met Steve our freshman year of college, first week at orientation. This tiny blond kid who just went through a growth spurt. He was...angry and sunny and wickedly funny. Kind to everyone and smart as hell. Could never have told you just by looking at him or even talking to him that he’d just learned his Ma was real sick. He was juggling school and his own health and hers on top of it. Never complained once, just like her. She passed away really quick after, maybe a year.”

Sam’s stopped eating. He’s looking at Bucky seriously, cautiously.

“Steve never asked for help, after she passed. Not a single time, Bucky. He finished college because he knew she would’ve wanted him to. He paid his way by himself. He’d go weeks eating just rice and soy sauce because he couldn’t afford anything else, but it didn’t matter to him because he knew he had to get that degree, for his Ma.” Sam sighs. “Everything he did then and after he did without a bit of help, because he’s never wanted to be a burden on someone else.”

“Jesus,” Bucky mutters.

“I know. My point is, that man is a self-suffering, self-sacrificial, deeply principled, stubborn idiot with a hero complex and heart of gold. And anyone who knows him would kill for him.” Sam leans back in his seat. “I mean it. Actually kill for him.”

Bucky looks nervous at that.

“So when are you going to tell him who you are?”

Bucky freezes. His heart starts pounding in his ears, loudly.

“What?”

“Please,” Sam says. He eats another fry. “Unlike Steve, I’m not a ninety year old artistic savant with the pop culture knowledge of a man stuck in ice for seventy years. I watch your show.”

Bucky feels himself flush.

“You knew?”

Sam laughs.

“Of course I knew, man. You think Bucky’s a common name? When Loki told me he was trading places with someone named Bucky who had a fancy place in New York, I had a feeling. Then I saw you.” Sam nods at him. “You look better in person.”

“...thanks?” Bucky blinks at him.

“I like your show and I like your movies and I have to say, Barnes, after meeting you, I like you too. But I mean it about Steve.” Sam takes another mouthful of beer and sits back. He stares at Bucky with the look of a man who’s seen death and caused it and is not afraid to repeat it in the right situations. Bucky tries desperately not to fidget.

“Whatever you do, don’t hurt him,” Sam says. “Steve’s--he’s been through enough. Too much shit has happened to him in his life already. After all that, he deserves some peace and happiness. And I haven’t seen him this happy since--well, not mine to tell. But I can tell he’s happy and I can tell you make him happy. So don’t fuck around with him, Barnes, he doesn’t deserve that.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Bucky says. He means it and feels the guilt almost immediately.

“If this is just some celebrity off-season fling for you, leave before he gets too attached,” Sam says. “Don’t give him expectations you can’t keep. Because whatever Steve Rogers says, he means every word of it.”

“I know,” Bucky says. And he does, already. “I’m not--it’s not a fling. It’s--I don’t know what it is. I’m trying to figure it out.”

Maybe Bucky looks as guilty and pathetic and miserable as he feels because after another hard, steely moment, Sam relaxes a little. He nods.

“I don’t think you’re a bad guy,” Sam says. “I just know Steve is one of the best. You’ll never find someone better than him.”

And even if Bucky hadn’t suspected it, even if he hadn’t experienced Steve Rogers firsthand, he thinks this would have convinced him--that one person would have inspired such loyalty in someone else, that someone else would so fiercely love and protect that one person is humbling and awe-inspiring. For someone to give so much love that they receive as much in return--it shows something special.

Bucky drains his mug.

“Sam,” he says. “I fucked up. I fucked up and I gotta fix it. Do you know where Steve’s gallery is?”

Sam grins at him.

“I’ll drive you there. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it really a Stucky fic without a classic Bucky Barnes Spiral? Also, no one really deserves Sam Wilson who is The Best.


	10. The Climb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wait until I tell you how Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie,” Loki says with a wink.
> 
> “ _Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas movie_ ,” Thor argues.
> 
> “Just because a movie is set during Christmas does not make it a Christmas movie,” Loki says. “And don’t get me started on Lord of the Rings.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Tenth Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, extreme amounts of sass, holiday build up, and both Loki & Bucky.
> 
> Happy Holiday Weekend! This is a very fun one. Everyone is just all sass all the time.
> 
> I also decided to split the 18,000 word chapter into two days, so you get to read all of the holiday fun tomorrow, on Christmas Eve itself. Until then, enjoy the lead in. :)

**Bucky. (Five Days to Christmas)**

Sam pulls up to the art gallery and Bucky’s so nervous, his palms are sweating. He rehearses what he’s going to say in his head a dozen times. _I’m sorry, Steve_ , he’s going to say. _I fucked up. I got scared and overwhelmed and I fucked up. I'm a mess. You didn't deserve that. I like you a lot. Give me another chance._

But even as Sam comes to a stop, Bucky can tell that the lights aren’t on. All of the nervous energy he had built up, all of the anxiety, all of the words he’s practiced, desert him. He sinks into the seat.

“Fuck,” he swears.

“He must have gone home already,” Sam says, peering out of his windshield.

Bucky doesn’t want to invite himself over, in case Steve doesn’t want to see him. He wouldn’t blame Steve if he didn’t want to see him.

“Does he live far?” he asks anyway.

Sam sort of looks over at Bucky discerningly, as though deciding what answer to give him.

“It’s driveable,” Sam says. “How much has Steve told you about his life?”

Bucky frowns.

“I know about his past, mostly. That he’s an artist and gallery owner. That he stays with you sometimes he’s in town, but he didn’t tell me exactly where he lives.”

Sam nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “All of that’s true.”

“What am I missing?” Bucky asks.

“Hey look,” Sam says. “I like you a lot, Barnes. I think you’re a mess, but I think you care about Steve and I think Steve probably cares about you. But some things it’s not my place to tell.”

“What, does he live in a murder house?” Bucky asks with a frown. “Does he have a BDSM dungeon?”

Sam snorts.

“Not my place to tell.”

Bucky doesn’t know how to interpret that. He exhales in frustration and lets his head fall back onto the headrest.

“Come back tomorrow,” Sam suggests.

“What if he doesn’t want to see me?” Bucky asks. His stomach is churning with guilt and anxiety and disappointment.

“He’ll at least give you a chance,” is all Sam says. “Steve Rogers always gives you a chance.”  


***

**  
Loki. (Five days to Christmas)**

Vali’s getting rapidly better, much to his personal delight and the gratitude of Loki’s ears. He learns all of the chords Loki teaches him, learns how to hold the guitar properly, learns how to use the fretboard, and listen for when something sounds wrong. Loki starts him on the simplest of songs--Twinkle Twinkle Little Star--and within days he’s progressed to Mary Had a Little Lamb and London Bridge. The afternoon he comes over and plays Yankee Doodle for Loki with very few mistakes, he looks so happy, he might cry.

“Not terrible, I must admit,” Loki says. He’s sitting at the coffee table in the living room, with the stack of patents. He only has twenty or thirty pages left to read through. He can finish within the next day or two and send them back to Baldur and--Loki’s good mood flickers, slightly. He hasn’t heard from Baldur since that phone call.

“Not terrible?” Vali looks offended. “I didn’t make any mistakes!”

“You made a few,” Loki says. “One or two. Practice makes perfect, Vali.”

“You sound like my teachers,” Vali says. He huffs out dramatically, puts the guitar down gently, and sprawls back against the couch cushions.

“Now let’s not get dramatic,” Loki murmurs. He frowns at a phrase and highlights it. He considers something and looks at the kid. “Don’t you have any friends your own age?”

“Don’t _you_?” Vali shoots back.

Loki blinks and returns to his papers.

“Touche.”

Next to him, Vali grins at Loki, then stares up at the ceiling. Then he kicks his legs back and forth.

“Mrs. H hasn’t heard me play, yet,” he says.

“Where has she been?” Loki’s still frowning. This clause makes no sense. He circles it.

“Working,” Vali says. “ _Duh_.”

“Does she not have time off for the holidays?” Loki asks. The measure of irony is lost on him, a man who hasn’t taken holidays off for the past three years, who is currently on holiday himself and still reading through a 150 page patent draft.

“I don’t know,” Vali says. “You think she talks to me? All I know is every time she comes home, she's stressed and muttering about ungrateful clients.”

“She’s your foster mother,” Loki says. He looks up from the papers and gives Vali A Look. “Have you tried?”

Vali looks chastened. He sighs, deflating.

“No.” He’s lucky he’s so cute, because all of that sullenness will be terrible in about three years.

“Try talking to her sometime,” Loki murmurs, returning his attention back to the papers. “We both know you have no problem doing that.”

“Mean,” Vali says and sticks out his tongue. When Loki still doesn’t pay attention to him, he sighs and picks his guitar back up again. “Hey, do you know any holiday songs?”

“Why?” Loki scribbles something out and writes something else in.

“Because it’s the holidays,” Vali says. “Obviously.”

Loki looks up at him, deadpan.

“Obviously.”

“There’s a thing,” Vali says. He says it in that small voice, the voice of a ten year old who wants something and is either shy or nervous to ask but knows if he asks in this manner, he’ll get exactly what he wants. God, children are manipulative little bastards.

“What thing?” Loki asks.

“A--” Vali hesitates. He blows his copper hair out of his face. “--an event.”

“An event,” Loki repeats.

“Of a kind,” Vali says, carefully.

“An event of a kind,” Loki repeats.

“With...entertainment,” Vali says.

Loki just stares at him, unimpressed.

“Okay, it’s the school holiday show,” Vali says. He colors a little. “There’s a dumb play and the choir sings and the band plays some songs and there are some carols.”

“I see,” Loki says. He caps his pen.

“We rented out a local theater. It’s after Christmas and, well,” Vali says. He fidgets. Fidgeting is Vali’s tell-tale sign that he’s going to ask something that he thinks Loki’s going to say no to or at least not like. “I know it’s lame and it’s gonna be too long and it’s just a kid’s production, but--”

Loki tries to hide his smile. He looks very serious.

“But?”

“ButIWasWonderingIfYouWantedToCome,” Vali lets it all out in a rush.

Loki tries really hard not to laugh. He remembers being that young, idolizing someone, and being so nervous to ask what he wanted of them.

“Sorry?” he asks, because he’s an asshole.

“But,” Vali repeats, slower. “I was wondering. If you wanted. To come.”

“Oh,” Loki says. “I see.”

Vali deflates.

“Oh. That’s okay, you don’t have to--”

“Are you playing?” Loki asks.

Vali looks confused. “Playing what? I’ll be singing the carols and--”

“Well why aren’t you playing? With the band?” Loki reaches forward for the guitar, plucks it out of Vali’s arms. “You know how to play now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know the songs. And it’s in a week,” Vali says.

“Do you have the song list?” Loki asks. Vali nods. “Give it to me.”

Vali rummages in his backpack and emerges with the song list--there’s Jingle Bells, Feliz Navidad, Rudolph, Little Drummer Boy, Dreidl Dreidl Dreidl, and a few others that are easy enough.

“Are you ready to do hard work?” Loki asks, very seriously.

Vali’s mouth drops open. Then he closes it and nods.

“Yes, Mr. Loki,” he says. “I’ll work so hard.”

Loki’s about to answer, when the doorbell rings.

“Can you get that?” He returns his attention to the guitar and begins playing out Jingle Bells as Vali runs to the elevators.

A few minutes later, Thor emerges. He has a wreath and Christmas lights in his arms. He’s wearing a thick, sherpa-lined jacket and has his hair pulled back into a ponytail. His face is pink and happy. Loki can’t stop the small smile that appears on his face.

“Hey!” Thor says.

“Mr. Thor!” Vali exclaims.

“Hey, Val,” Thor says, ruffling his hair. Vali leads Thor to the living room, where Loki is still playing out some Christmas songs. His face, surprised, eyes wide, mouth dropped open, is near comical. “What are you doing? Did you forget to hate everything for five minutes?”

Loki smirks.

“What’s with the Christmas lights?”

“Needed to decorate a tree. Was going to enlist your help.”

“What do I look like, free labor?” Loki complains.

“Do you really want me to answer that?” Thor quirks a smile. Bastard.

Loki rolls his eyes. Vali looks at them, one to the other, and then back.

“No, really, what are you doing?”

“Mr. Loki’s teaching me some songs,” Vali says. “There’s a holiday school event thing and he’s gonna go if I learn to play some holiday songs before then.”

“Hey,” Loki says. “I didn’t say that. Don’t put words into my mouth.”

Vali smiles at him innocently. Brat.

“Yeah? Let’s hear it then.” Thor dumps the lights and wreaths onto the ground and settles on the other end of the couch.

“I do not answer to you,” Loki says, but he strums the guitar again anyway. It takes him a few moments to tune it and adjust it to himself, then he starts playing Silver Bells.

Vali watches, face bright, nearly ecstatic. Next to him, Thor’s grin is huge too. They both watch Loki, enraptured by the way he plays something as simple as a holiday song, the way his fingers move up and down the strings, the way he makes it his own.

He finishes Silver Bells and moves on to Jingle Bells and then Feliz Navidad and by the time he reaches Rudolph, Thor and Vali are both singing along loudly.

“Wow the other reindeer are real assholes,” Thor whispers to Vali, conspiratorially.

“Yeah, I know right?” Vali whispers back. “Especially Blitzen.”

“I _hate_ him!” Thor says. “What a dick!”

Loki snorts at their giggles and judging through Rudolph and changes tune a little when he gets to Silent Night. This is one of his personal favorites because, played right, it’s slow and soft and beautiful on a snowy winter’s night. He feels at peace playing the strings and it must show on his face, because when he finishes and looks up, Thor’s looking at him strangely, almost achingly fond. He only realizes after that he must have been singing along to it too.

“Wow,” Vali says and claps and Thor agrees.

Loki clears his throat.

“Here,” he says and unwinds the guitar straps from his shoulders. He passes it to Thor who blinks. “You take one song and I’ll take the next?”

Thor’s expression softens. He smiles.

“Hey, yeah,” he says. He turns to Vali. “So, Jingle Bells first?”

“ _Obviously_ ,” Vali says, but he can’t quite hide how happy and excited he is under that pre-teen snark.

 

***

**Bucky. (Four Days to Christmas)**

Bucky kills the engine in the same spot Sam had parked the day before. He sees the lights on in the gallery this time, a luminescent brightness streaming out through the large, clear windows onto the darkening sidewalk. He can see bodies and heads of the people milling about inside. The gallery’s open late tonight because of a special holiday exhibit, if the website Bucky stalked for two hours last night is accurate.

“Maybe this is a bad idea,” he says aloud to his empty car. “What’s the point? We don’t even live in the same country.”

Almost on cue, as though she can read Bucky’s thoughts from across an entire ocean, Bucky’s phone starts ringing and Natasha’s face pops up on the screen.

“How’s the lover?” Natasha says, in lieu of greeting.

Bucky flushes.

“He’s not--” he starts and stops. He groans and slumps his head against the steering wheel. “Hello to you too, Nat.”

“Oh, god,” comes Natasha’s voice. “You’re being dramatic again. I can hear it in the way you sound as though the world is crashing down around you.”

“You ever think about not kicking a guy when he’s down?” Bucky mutters.

“No,” Natasha says.

“How’s Clint?” Bucky asks.

“Great,” Natasha says. “He’s picking up a bucket of buffalo wings and a tub of onion rings, which I suspect I’ll need after this conversation.”

“Hey!” Bucky protests.

“What are you avoiding now, Barnes?” Natasha asks. “You have three minutes before Clint comes back and I unceremoniously dump you for wings.”

Bucky pauses. He can’t blame her for that.

“I fucked up,” Bucky says. “And now I’m sitting in the parking lot of his art gallery, trying to work up the courage to go inside and apologize.”

“I see,” Natasha says.

“What if he doesn’t want to see me, Nat?” Bucky says, dejectedly. “What if he hates me? He deserves better than what I did to him. He was kind and open to me and I lied and then I had a meltdown and then I ran away.”

“I see,” Natasha says again.

“But I want to see him,” Bucky admits. “I think I hurt him and it’s eating at me and I haven’t felt that way in a long time and I miss him. I actually miss him. He's--wonderful. He's really really great.”

“Got it,” Natasha says.

“But what if--”

“Okay,” Natasha interrupts. “No, I got it.”

“Got what?” Bucky looks confused.

“I have the answer,” Natasha says. “I have the solution to your problem.”

Bucky’s heart leaps at that, actually. Natasha always has the answer.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. He's ready. “Yeah. Okay, tell me.”

“Stop being dramatic and go inside,” Natasha says. She hangs up on him.

Bucky stares at his phone.

“I hate you,” Bucky mutters and pockets the phone. He then wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and gets out of the car.

  
There’s a little bell on top of the gallery door that tinkles as he opens it. Bucky takes in a breath as he walks inside, stomach churning from nerves. The gallery is bigger than he expects, although cozy, with white walls and golden lighting and neatly polished wooden floors. The air is warm and smells fresh, like pine needles, and the sound of quiet chatter and soft laughter drifts through as he steps in farther. Men and women are crowded in front of various drawings, champagne and hors d'oeuvres in hand, leaning toward each other and the paintings. Everyone is immersed in conversation or engaged with what they’re seeing in front of them. There’s a love here that Bucky can’t put his finger on. It feels like home, as though Steve found a way to bottle his essence and turn it into a place.

Someone offers to take Bucky’s jacket and he declines, but accepts the offer of a flute of champagne.

Bucky doesn’t see Steve immediately, but the urgency leeches out of him, replaced, instead, by curiosity and awe. Bucky doesn’t know the first thing about art, but even he, as an amateur, can tell that everything hanging on the walls is superb. He finds himself mesmerized by a landscape of a small barn in the middle of a snowy field. In the background, the night sky swirls with dark colors and small stars peek out behind clouds, illuminating the field and trees underneath. There’s both a feeling of loneliness and calm, of energy and quiet. It’s stunning and makes Bucky feel queer, as though he’s caught between these poles as well.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” someone says to his right.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

“I think it was one of her last works,” the person says.

“Whose?” Bucky asks.

“Margaret Carter,” the woman says. “She had a small but fervent following. Mostly did photography, but there are a few paintings that show how talented she was at both.”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “When did she pass away?”

“Three years ago,” the woman says, sadly. “Cancer.”

That makes Bucky hopelessly sad, somehow, for this bright, talented woman he’s never met before. He moves away from the painting, looks at a few other landscapes, and turns to a wall of photography. Here, he finds more Margaret Carters. There are some stunning landscape shots, but most are bits and pieces of people. An eye captured here, the movement of a hand there. In one, a small bundle, swaddled, held in arms belonging to a person he can’t see, but who clearly loves it, him, her, whatever they end up being. The pictures are raw and lovely and in black and white. They make Bucky swallow thickly as he goes through them, one by one, until he ends the row.

He catches his breath and goes down another aisle.

Here, he sees a different style of paintings. They’re mostly portraits and silhouettes of people in soft colors and soothing strokes. The same face keeps popping up, a young woman with red lips and deep brown curls. There’s something about her, a smirk on her lips, a twinkle in her eyes, as though she’s telling something and hiding it at the same time. She’s magnetic. Whoever painted this, painted her with a devotion that makes Bucky’s chest ache.

He’s staring at one of her portraits, the young woman laughing, in a deep red dress, when someone bumps into his leg. It’s a small someone and Bucky’s startled out of his reverie as the little someone, all blond curls and blue eyes, blinks up at him.

“I’m sorry!” the little girl says, all of seven or eight years old. “I tripped on my shoelaces.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” Bucky blinks at her feet. She’s not wearing shoes with shoelaces.

“Were you looking at the picture of my mom?” the girl says, ignoring the discrepancy in her story and looking around Bucky at the portrait behind him.

“This was your mom?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah!” the girl beams. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I think this is my favorite too.”

“Who painted it?” he asks.

“Daddy,” she says. “Hold on, I’ll go get him!”

The little girl bounds away, leaving Bucky blinking in her wake. He barely has a chance to turn back before the little girl is dragging someone back with her, who’s protesting.

“Sarah, what are you--”

Bucky takes in a sharp breath.

Steve stumbles to a halt.

“Oh,” Bucky says.

“Bucky,” Steve says. He looks dumbfounded.

Sarah looks between them both, confused.

“Daddy, do you know this man?”

Steve turns pink, looking guilty almost immediately. Bucky tries to stop the way his stomach sinks into his toes, the shattering feeling of horror and disappointment.

“Daddy," Bucky swallows and stops. He looks at Sarah and back up to Steve. "Are you--M-A-R-R-I-E-D?”

“I can spell, you know,” Sarah says, looking Bucky in the eye.

Steve chuckles a little and lets out a low breath, running his fingers through his hair.

“W-I-D-O-W-E-R,” he spells back, with a sad smile.

“Oh,” Bucky says. He turns back to the beautiful painting on the wall. This woman, a woman who was so loved that her artist captured every part of her and painted her in colors that left her bare for the world to see. “ _Oh_.”

“Sarah,” Steve says. “Go find your Aunt Sharon, okay? I’m going to talk to my friend for a bit.”

Sarah looks between Steve and Bucky and, despite being seven or eight, there’s a knowing looking in her eyes that Bucky can’t quite escape.

“Friend, sure,” she says, and then skips away.

Bucky stares after her.

“She’s really--”

Steve laughs. It's fond and sad at the same time.

“She takes after her mother.”

The jars Bucky back to the present. He turns to Steve.

“Why...didn’t you tell me?” he asks.

Steve turns toward the portrait, shrugs a little.

“I--wasn’t sure how,” he says. “When I met you, I was just having a night on the town. I didn’t expect--” He stops, sucks in a breath, and stops, staring at the portrait.

“Sometimes, I need a little break,” Steve says, softly. “Sharon will watch Sarah for the weekend and I get to...just be someone else for a while. Not daddy, not a caretaker, not a single father, just me, Steve. Sometimes it’s nice to just be someone else for a while, you know? Or at least be a different version of yourself.”

Bucky stops at that. Suddenly, it all clicks, every part of it. _Sharon_ , he remembers. _Sarah_. He feels suddenly, horribly, terribly like the ass he actually is.

“Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”

He looks down at his hands and thinks about how true that all is for him too, how Steve’s truth rings in his bones, to who he is right now and who he’s trying to be.

“I’m sorry, Buck,” Steve says. He turns to Bucky now and he does look it, sincerity and regret etched into every line of his hauntingly beautiful face. “I should have told you. It’s just--it’s been the two of us for so long, bringing someone else in seemed scary. I was scared.”

Bucky laughs softly, his heart swelling despite himself.

“You were scared?” Bucky asks. “God, Steve, I came here to apologize to you for the other night. I was such an ass. _I_ got scared and I ran away and--you deserve better than that. Sam really put me in my place.”

“Sam?” Steve’s features shift and he smiles. “You met him?”

“Oh did I ever,” Bucky grins.

“He’s a good guy,” Steve says fondly.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I can see that.”

There’s quiet between them after that, both of them staring at their hands and shoes, at the painting, at everything but each other. Then Steve sighs.

“We’re a packaged deal, Sarah and me,” he says. “I didn’t know how to tell you that.”

Bucky looks at Steve and it breaks his heart a bit, to see how uncertain he looks. He reaches forward, almost on compulsion, and brushes bangs out of Steve’s face. Steve looks at him.

“She seems like a good kid,” Bucky says. He lets his hand rest on Steve’s cheek. The skin warms under his touch.

“She’s great,” Steve says. “I barely have to do anything at all.”

Bucky wants to kiss him, right then, but he can’t, not with so many people around. So instead, he turns back to the portrait.

“What was her name?” Bucky asks.

“Peggy,” Steve says, after a moment. “Margaret, but she went by Peggy. Said Margaret sounded too stuffy.”

Margaret. _Oh_ , Bucky thinks. He looks closer at the painting.

“She was beautiful,” he says.  

“Yeah,” Steve says and the emotion in his voice is almost too much for Bucky to bear. “She was the best gal I’ve ever known.”

He looks at the inscription next to the picture. _Steven Grant Rogers (b. 1985),_ **_My Fair Lady, 2012_** _. Acrylic on canvas_.

My Fair Lady, Bucky thinks. And then, again, _oh_.

“Leukemia,” he remembers.

“Sarah had just turned four,” Steve says. “It was so fast. It seemed like it happened overnight. One day she was fine, the next she was sick. And the next, she was just gone. We thought we had time and we didn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says and he turns to Steve. He means it.

Steve shakes his head, trying to ease the grief from his face. He almost manages, but it lingers near his eyes. “It doesn’t get easier, but it does get more bearable. With time. And the right people.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I’m not going to ask you to take on something you’re not ready for, Bucky,” Steve says. He cups Bucky’s cheek and then withdraws his hand. “But I like you. And I care for you. And I want you in my life, if that’s something you’d like as well.”

Steve lets the words hang between them and then quietly turns back to Peggy.

Bucky doesn’t really know how to interpret that, but he knows how to interpret the _thud-thud-thud_ in his chest, and how his throat dries, and how he can’t seem to stop watching Steve’s bright blue eyes. He’s starting to understand how to interpret how he feels when he looks at Steve Rogers or is, just, around him.   
  
_Stop being dramatic_ , Natasha's voice is in his head. And Sam's,  _You'l never find someone better than him._     
  
Bucky's been a selfish, scared, cowardly asshole. And frankly, he's sick of it. He's sick of himself. He wants to be better than that.

“Steve,” Bucky starts and stops. He takes a deep breath and starts again. “Do you--and Sarah--have plans for Christmas?”

 

***

**Loki. (Four Days to Christmas)**

He’s walking along the Christmas market at Columbus Circle, hot cider in hand, when he passes by a table full of hand-crafted silver trinkets. He’s only half-paying attention, having just spotted an entertaining vendor full of comical hand puppets that he he has half a mind to buy for Sam, when he sees something that makes him stop.

Loki shuffles back to the table and looks through a small display of rings and cuff-links. Nestled near the back of the soft board is a pair of silver, glinting hair clips. They’re delicately wrought, with hammers that could also be music notes carefully placed on the ends. Loki picks them up with cold fingers and imagines them, briefly, tying back a single braid in long, blond hair.

“How much for these?” Loki asks the woman behind the counter.

“Oh,” the woman sighs, happily. “Those are my favorite. My husbands designed them before he passed away. He was a choir director at our local high school.”

“They’re beautiful,” Loki says, genuinely.

“$35,” the woman says.

Loki gives her $50. She looks at him, stunned, and he pockets the clips in the small white box with green ribbon she places them in.

“Happy Holidays,” he says, smiling and drinking more cider. He turns away and, feeling strangely pleased with himself, proceeds to the hand puppets.

 

***

**Bucky. (Three Days to Christmas)**

Bucky is on the floor by the tree, playing with Riley’s ears, when his phone rings. As usual these days, he answers without looking at it.

“We agreed we wouldn’t see each other until Christmas,” he says, with a grin. “That way we’ll keep the mystery alive.”

There’s a pause on the other end and then a British voice Bucky doesn’t recognize speaks.

“Bucky Barnes?”

Bucky stops, hands mid-air, holding Riley’s floppy ears up above his head comically. Riley barks at him.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Who’s this?”

“Oh,” the voice on the other end exhales. “This is Loki Laufeyson. You are staying in my cottage and I am in your apartment?”

“Oh,” Bucky says. “Oh! Loki! Hey!”

“Am I interrupting something?” Loki sounds uncertain.

“Only Riley’s daily pets and cuddles,” Bucky says with a grin. “Nothing too important.”

Riley barks again in protest.

“He seems to like you,” Loki says on the other end.

Bucky grins and pets Riley affectionately.

“Are you--” Loki starts and stops. Then, wryly. “Who did you think was calling?”

Bucky turns beet red, even though this Loki is nowhere near to seeing him.

“No one,” Bucky coughs. “Just a joke.”

“Sam is with his girlfriend, so you have either met someone or…” Loki seems like he’s figuring it out on the other end. Bucky starts panicking. “Oh, I should have warned you about Rogers.”

Bucky chokes on his own spit. Starts coughing violently, which isn’t suspicious At All.

“Just so you know, Bucky, Sam’s best friend will sometimes show up in the middle of the night,” Loki says. He sounds perfectly innocent which is why Bucky is convinced he’s torturing him on purpose. “He is quite tall, rather large, all muscle. Blond hair, blue eyes. A bit like a golden retriever. Many find him quite handsome.”

“Do they?” Bucky coughs some more.

“If you see him, do tell him I send my best holiday wishes,” Loki says, cheerfully. Bucky doesn’t know this man at all, but he can recognize a shit-eating grin when he hears one, even if he doesn’t see it.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yup. If I see this Tall Blond Man I’ll definitely let him know--hey, how’s the penthouse? How’s Tom? Has he forgotten me?”

“Ah, yes,” Loki says. “I believe so. We have become fast friends and now he has no need for anyone else.”

“It’s the roast chicken,” Bucky scowls. “That damn traitor.”

Loki chuckles on the other end.

“Were you going to mention to me that you are a film star?” he asks.

Bucky blinks rapidly at the ceiling.

“Oh, that,” Bucky says. “Did I forget to mention that?”

“It must have slipped your mind,” Loki says, amused. “Is everything well over there? To your liking?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, relaxing. “I’m really liking it over here.”

“December 29th is still our return date, yes?” Loki asks.

December 29th had seemed a lot farther away on December 15th, which, to be clear, it had been. Now, however, with his end date being only a week away, Bucky swallows past a little disappointment and even dread.

“Yeah,” he says. “If it is with you.”

On his end, for his part, Loki seems to pause too.

“Yes,” he says, eventually. “Of course.”

“Has anyone stopped by?” Bucky asks. “Looking for me?”

Loki pauses for a brief second.

“No,” he says. “Not for you.”

“Oh okay,” Bucky nods. “Good, good. If anyone asks--”

“I shall tell them you have been abducted by aliens and you have left your penthouse to me, a kind stranger who knows exactly the kind of roast chicken your very particular cat likes,” Loki says.

Bucky grins hard.

“That’s exactly what I was going to say! Thanks, pal.”

“I suspected as much. By the way,” Loki says. “Did you name your cat after the cat from that cartoon? The one where the cat is always chasing the mouse, but never succeeds in catching it?”

Bucky pauses.

“Maybe.”

“Hm,” Loki says. “That does not set a good legacy for Tom.”

“Hey,” Bucky protests. “I could have named him Wiley, like the coyote.”

“Oh,” Loki says. “That coyote is a terrible failure.”

“He _is_ a terrible failure,” Bucky agrees.

“Well,” Loki says. “Have a Happy Christmas, Bucky Barnes.”

“Merry Christmas, Loki,” Bucky says.

  
What a strange man, Bucky thinks after. But, not half bad. He kinda likes him.

Bucky finally lets go of Riley and forces himself up and over to the kitchen to bake cookies for Christmas.

 

***

**Loki. (Three Days To Christmas)**

“Vali’s getting good, isn’t he?” Thor beams at him. They’re both nursing hot chocolates from City Bakery, a place Volstagg had been insistent had the Best Hot Chocolate In the Entire Damn City and which, for once, he was not mistaken about. The drink is thick, pure drinking chocolate, hot and warming to their insides. Loki gets a large and it’s so rich he thinks he might die and go to chocolate heaven thereafter.Thor keeps looking at him, sipping at his own shot sized cup, and snickering.

They’re walking along Fifth Avenue, looking at the window displays because Loki had a few last minute presents to buy and Thor still hasn’t picked up something for Odin. The crowds are almost unbearable, tourists and native New Yorker alike squashed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, each jostling the other to look at the holiday windows. Sif had come out with them, but has since disappeared inside Bloomingdale's to look for something for her girlfriend of six years. It’s unclear whether that was the smarter course of action at this point.

“Not an engagement ring?” Loki asks, after Sif sends Thor a series of pictures of what her girlfriend might like better. Half of the pictures are lingerie and half are stilettos that look like they might kill a man. “Six years is a long time. Those stilettos are beautiful. I like the sharpened studs along the back.”

“I don’t think Valkyrie believes in the institution of marriage,” Thor muses. “And she might, actually, kill a man with those. It’s perfect.”

“Why didn’t I meet her at game night?” Loki asks.  

“She’s on tour right now,” Thor says. He sees Loki’s confused face and laughs. “She’s in a band.”

“Anything I’ve heard?” Not that Loki listens to much music anymore, but he likes to pretend he’s a semi-functional human being with interests apart from legal patents.

“Only if you’re deep into the indie rock scene,” Thor says.

Loki only vaguely has an idea what indie rock even is, so he merely hums and sips more of his hot chocolate. The two of them crowd around a display along the way to Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s a beautiful scene, a bedroom window and the night sky glittering above. A young man in green is flying along from one point to the other and a group of boys and one girl in blue look up at him wonderingly.

“They have new themes every year,” Thor explains. “This year it’s--”

“Peter Pan,” Loki smiles. “I loved that movie as a child.”

“I still love that movie,” Thor leans toward him, as though confessing. Loki laughs and Thor grins. “I watch it at least once a year.”

“Never want to grow up?” Loki asks.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Thor asks and bumps shoulders with Loki. Loki holds onto his hot chocolate tighter.

“I always liked Hook myself,” he says.

“Of course you did,” Thor laughs and Loki makes a face.

“He was misunderstood!” he protests.

“He tried to kill a child,” Thor reasons with him, or tries to.

“He was a very annoying child,” Loki says, equally reasonably. “Anyway, it wasn’t his trigger-happy murderous desires. It was the hook.”

“You wanted a hook for a hand?” Thor raises an eyebrow. “Or you were attracted to a man with a hook for a hand?”

“Why pick one when you could have both?” Loki grins and makes one hand into a hook and badgers Thor with it. Thor, for his part, laughs heartily, before catching Loki’s hook, his fingers curling around Loki’s wrist. His hands are large and soft. His thumb lingers on Loki’s pulse point.

“Oh,” Loki says, his heart catching in his throat. It does an awkward rhythm he’s not used to.

“Caught you, Hook,” Thor says, grinning.

“Curse you, Pan,” Loki says, softly.

They look at one another for a beat, and then another. It’s maybe a beat too long.

With a breath that sounds like it takes some effort, Thor lets Loki’s wrist go. Loki’s skin tingles where Thor’s hand was on it. He tries not to think about that.

“Are you and Jane spending Christmas with your family or hers?” Loki asks, trying to divert the sudden tension somehow.

“Oh,” Thor blinks. “Uh, she’s spending Christmas with her family. Darcy has a new boyfriend or something and they’re all meeting him for the first time.”

“You’re not going with her?” Loki asks. They shuffle down the sidewalk together, bumping shoulders and elbows from time to time, peering in through the display windows with a sigh intermittently.

“We didn’t talk about it much,” Thor says. He sounds guilty. Or, no, he sounds as though he should feel guilty, but doesn’t quite. Loki knows that sound well, could recognize it from a mile off. “I think she figured I’d be with mine and she’d be with hers and we’d meet after she got back. I was going to give her the necklace then.”

“So you’re going home?” Loki asks.

“Uh, no.” Thor scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “Dad just retired so Odin and Frigga are taking the dogs for holiday in the Alps or something very retirement-y.”

Maybe Loki’s had too much hot chocolate (obviously sugar has the same loosening effect as alcohol) because he swallows the sweetness on his tongue and ignores embarrassment to turn to Thor.

“I wouldn’t hate company,” he says. “If you wanted.”

Thor stills.

“On Christmas?”

“No, on Bastille Day,” Loki mutters. Thor’s face breaks into a grin at the immediate sarcasm. It’s dazzling and horrible. “Yes, on Christmas.”

“You inviting me to spend Christmas with you?”

“Don’t,” Loki says and pinches the bridge of his nose, “make me regret it.”

Thor laughs and leans over, bumps shoulders with him.

“I always make you regret it, remember?”

“Always is a bit dramatic. I have known you for a little over a week,” Loki says.

“And in that time…” Thor looks at him expectantly.

“...always,” Loki says. “Every single time.”

That makes Thor look pleased and smug at the same time, as though annoying Loki to no end during every interaction is something to be proud of, a badge of honor.

“I’d like that,” Thor says and, just like that, he’s back to being sincere. “To spend Christmas with you, Loki.”

Loki swallows. Maybe it’s hot chocolate, but maybe it’s something else entirely. Christmas with someone else. He hasn’t had that or tried to have that in...a very long time.

“Come on,” Thor says, beckoning Loki forward.

Yes, of course, Loki thinks. _Come on_.  
  
He follows without protest.

***

**  
Bucky. (Two Days to Christmas)**

“Sam!” Bucky calls Sam in a panic the day before Christmas Eve. He’s at one of the only shops that are still open, 6 pm at night, a bottle of wine in one hand and an oven mitt shaped like a snowman in the other hand.

“Bucky?” Sam asks, sounding concerned. “What’s up?”

“It’s 6 pm, this is the only store that’s open, it’s definitely going to close in like 15 minutes and so far I have a bottle of wine and an oven mitt shaped like a snowman.” Bucky’s not panicking, he’s just a little anxious that’s all, and if his voice comes out a little high pitched and hysterical, that’s because he has a cold he’s recovering from, or something.

“Barnes,” Sam says. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“ _Tomorrow is Christmas Eve_ ,” Bucky says, emphasizing each word.

“Yeah, I got that,” Sam says. “So what’s this about a snowman?”

“Sarah,” Bucky says. “I met her.”

“Oh.” Sam sounds relieved. “Hey, that’s great. Sarah’s a great kid, real smart and sweet and wickedly funny, like her mom.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, waving away all of the pleasantries. “I get all that. What I _don’t_ get is _what kinda present I’m supposed to buy a seven year old at a grocery store the night before Christmas Eve_.”

On the other end, there’s a pause. Then, Sam snickers, like the asshole Bucky is positive he actually is.

“Are you telling me you picked up a pair of oven mitts and thought that’d be an appropriate present for a kid?”

Bucky opens and closes his mouth.

“It has a snowman on it! There aren’t a lot of options! The toy store is closed! Does she like toys? Maybe she doesn’t like toys either! Should I get her chocolate? Cookies? Boxed wine? Help!”

“Holy shit, your anxiety is giving _me_ anxiety,” Sam says. “Okay, calm down, Barnes. Like. Seriously, take a breath. Sarah Carter Rogers is not going to hate you because you bring her cookies instead of a toy for Christmas. However, her _father_ , the man you’re actually trying to impress, _will_ hate you if you bring his seven year old boxed wine.”

“So no boxed wine?” Bucky looks at the shelf in front of him dubiously.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Sam says. “Okay, you just met her and she’s seven, so get her one of those Kinder egg sets. The ones that are a huge toy but are stuffed with Kinder eggs. Also, she loves Haribo and those cookies with the jam in the middle.”

“Okay, okay, hold on” Bucky says. He goes down the aisles of the tiny grocery store, looking for the items suggested. He finds the jam cookies almost immediately and, with a relieved sigh, puts them into his shopping basket. He finds the Haribo next.

The Kinder egg toy takes him a little longer, but eventually he finds one that’s a large Kinder egg man with a Christmas hat on it, with Kinder eggs inside. It’s kind of cute in a creepy kind of way, which he supposes must be fine for the daughter of Steve Rogers.

Daughter. Shit. Bucky hasn’t even really thought about that yet, what all of that means. He had gone immediately into overdrive after that night at the gallery, just relieved that Steve had forgiven him. The shock of meeting his daughter and finding out about his late wife had been there too, but he had left it for later, like he does with everything.

The later seems to be catching up to him, but he shoves it under a pile of Haribo.

“And wine for Steve?” Bucky asks. “And a log of cheese. Two logs of cheese?”

“Cheese is good,” Sam confirms.

Bucky piles everything onto the conveyor belt with a sigh, like a drowning man finally sinking his fingers into a life raft.

“Thanks, man,” Bucky says.

“You’re a goddamned mess, Bucky Barnes,” Sam Wilson says.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Bucky says, eyeing the cashier as she rings up his purchases.

  
He gets back to the cottage and unloads the groceries. He puts Steve and Sarah’s “presents” into a gift bag he bought and sits down on the couch to watch a rerun of the Great British Bake Off. Riley hops up onto the couch next to him, settling into Bucky’s lap.

Bucky spends the next two hours mindlessly watching what’s supposed to be a soothing baking show and petting Riley, which is supposed to be a soothing action, but really ignoring his mounting anxiety instead. Christmas with Steve and his daughter. What was he thinking?

 

***

 

**Loki. (Two Days to Christmas)**

It’s been nearly a week since he’s heard from Baldur and only a little less since Baldur overnighted the patents for him to look over. Loki thinks he should be wilting under the distance, struggling through the push and pull of love, a high and low like some kind of addiction he can’t quit. And under normal circumstances he would do, and has done, exactly that. He’s lain awake at night, remembering a certain phrase between them, a look Baldur had given, Baldur’s hands on him the last time they’d had sex. But he finds, strangely, that he barely has the time to check his phone now. It’s not that he forgets Baldur, it’s more that he forgets to remember him.

  
This close to Christmas, Loki finds himself spending more time with Thor than he would have imagined he could tolerate, that first day the blond had barged into the apartment, all cheerful confidence bordering on arrogance. They buy new decorations to put on Bucky’s tree and fill the space under the tree with silly gifts, for each other, for Vali, for Tom, for Bucky. They watch Christmas movies that Loki has not seen in years, or ever, and that Thor has, apparently, already watched two times apiece this December alone. They go look at puppies at the pet store again and Thor has to drag Loki away from that tiny black lab that’s still in there, looking at Loki with his large, chocolate eyes. They take turns teaching Vali and listening to him, guiding his hands along the strings, and preparing him for his musical debut. They bicker about the movies that they watch--Loki thinks Elf is a waste of time and Thor thinks Elf is one of the greatest cinematic holiday masterpieces ever created--and they bicker about what Christmas foods are the best and they bicker about what musical composers and musicians and Christmas songs are the best and they bicker about how they’re not bickering when Vali, who is often with them, points out how much they bicker.

Thor goes with Loki to his yoga classes and proves hilariously non-dexterous and after, as a reward for his efforts, Loki buys him hot chocolate which, unsurprisingly, he ends up drinking the most of. They play cards with Sif and Volstagg and Fandral and one night, they get so drunk that Thor ends up passing out on Loki’s lap on his own couch and in retaliation Loki braids tinsel into Thor’s hair. When Thor wakes up and looks at himself in the mirror, the idiot grins at his reflection and at Loki. Unthinkingly, he presses a kiss to Loki’s temple and declares he loves it, he’s never looked better in his life.

Loki’s skin burns under the kiss and he swallows and smiles and thinks about how he should be thinking about Baldur and forgets to remember him all the same.

  
They spend the Saturday before Christmas planning their Christmas together. Thor insists that Loki spend Christmas Eve at his apartment and Loki acquiesces, saying Bucky’s superior penthouse apartment is more suited for the main event anyway.

“You are such a condescending asshole,” Thor declares, heatedly, much to Loki’s delight.

They’re in Bucky’s kitchen, arguing over what should go on the Christmas Eve and Christmas dinner menus. Thor, for inexplicable reasons, has an armful of tinsel that he promptly dumps on Loki in his petulant ire. Loki blinks through shimmering strands of silver and gold and red and green. He has a brief, fleeting thought that if they were together, he would tilt his face up toward Thor, tinsel and all, and let him kiss him for that comment alone. He ignores the sentiment the moment he thinks it, opting, instead, to take a handful of tinsel and throw it back at Thor.

  
They go to Whole Foods together and bring back groceries for Thor’s allegedly famous Penne alla Vodka, Loki’s favorite treacle tart recipe, peppermint bark, and red velvet bundt cake, along with garlic bread, roast chicken (for themselves and for Tom), green bean casserole, cranberries, salad, hot chocolate, five different bags of assorted chocolates, and enough champagne, vodka, beer, and wine to keep them hungover until the New Year.

Thor opens a beer when they return to Bucky’s and Loki puts away all of the groceries and goes to take a shower. When he emerges, he has his wet hair up in a bun, and he’s in sweatpants and a t-shirt and robes. He looks ready for bed. Instead, he pours himself a glass of wine and then joins Thor back at the kitchen counter. Thor’s tapping his pen against the granite and mouthing something to himself. Loki lets himself stand close enough to brush arms. He looks over at the notebook Thor has out and sees different notes and lyrics written down.

“Working?” Loki asks, quirking a smile. “The day before the day before Christmas?”

Thor looks up at him and continues tapping something out. Loki can see he’s lost him to whatever’s happening in his head. He’s looking at Loki, but thinking about something else.

Loki, amused, waves his hands in front of Thor. Thor barely blinks, continues humming. Loki grins and starts making faces at him, turns his hands into a bird and flaps them in front of Thor, does the wave, makes a hook, takes his wine glass and moves it in circles in front of Thor’s face.

When Thor still doesn’t respond, Loki chuckles to himself and moves to the other side of the counter to rifle through a magazine Vali had left behind.

Ten minutes later, Thor snaps out of it. He’s scribbled down two pages of notes and lyrics and memos to himself.

“Hello,” Loki says. “Welcome back.”

Thor blinks, capping the pen and looking up.

“Oh fuck. Did I zone out?”

“You were on a different planet,” Loki remarks. “Was it nice there?”

“How long?” Thor says, eyebrows furrowing.

“I wasn’t timing you,” Loki says. He takes a sip of his wine. “Did you finish?”

Thor looks down at his notebook.

“That’s more than I’ve managed in weeks,” he says. “I’ve had this song I’ve been stuck on. Complete writer’s block.”

“I’m glad I’m so boring I inspire creativity in others just to get away,” Loki grins.

Thor’s face falls.

“Loki, it’s not like that,” he says. “I’m sorry, I just had a tune in my head and--”

“Thor,” Loki laughs. “Zone out as much as you’d like. It saves me talking to you.”

Thor looks at him with concern and Loki just snorts and bumps him on his way out of the kitchen.

“Come on,” Loki says. “You promised to watch Love Actually with me.”

“You made commentary the entire movie last time,” Thor protests.

“Yes, Thor,” Loki says. “Because not all couples are made equally and that movie does not stand up to the test of time.”

Thor’s mouth drops open and he follows Loki out of the kitchen like a little puppy.

“That is one of the worst opinions I’ve _ever_ heard in my life,” he says.

“Wait until I tell you how Die Hard isn’t a Christmas movie,” Loki says with a wink.

“ _Die Hard is absolutely a Christmas movie_ ,” Thor argues.

“Just because a movie is set _during Christmas_ does not make it a Christmas movie,” Loki says. “And don’t get me started on Lord of the Rings.”

“I will not hear a word against Lord of the Rings!” Thor shouts back as they make their way to the living room.

  
They spend the next half an hour bickering and by the time they finally settle on an opinion both of them can live with (A Christmas Carol is, in fact, a classic worthy of being called a Classic), the only thing left to watch on TV is a late night Friends marathon.

Then they start arguing about who was the best Friend and it’s all downhill from there. They end up falling asleep on the couch together, ready, for better or worse, for Christmas.


	11. The Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hi,” Bucky says again.
> 
> “Hey yourself,” Steve says with a smile.
> 
> Bucky, heart skipping, leans forward and presses another kiss to Steve’s mouth.
> 
> “Merry Christmas,” he says.
> 
> “Eurgh, morning breath,” Steve makes a face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Eleventh Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, holiday warmth, fun, and cliches, for our favorite stucky and thorki. 
> 
> We've finally reached peak holiday fluff! We made it, everyone! 
> 
> Happy Happy Holidays from me to you and yours! Whether you're with your friends, families, or just enjoying the holiday with a nice cup of hot chocolate and 12 fics up on 12 different tabs, I hope it's full of good food and good cheer and I hope this little offering makes it that much better.

**Loki. (Christmas Eve)**

Loki wakes up on December 24th with a smile on his face. He feels like another person is inhabiting skin, a person who has promise or at least the promise of something to look forward to or a child on, well, Christmas. At some point the night before, they had both blearily woken up and Loki had dumped extra bedding on Thor and dragged himself to bed. He turns his head now and sees Tom staring at him.

“Good morning,” Loki says.

“Mrow,” Tom answers.

Loki couldn’t say for sure, but he thinks that Tom might be the most intelligent and discerning cat he’s ever met. By the time he washes his face, fixes his hair, and pulls on clothes, Thor’s made himself at home downstairs.

“Merry Christmas Eve!” Thor beams and hands Loki a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

“That’s not a real phrase,” Loki says, sipping at his coffee, grateful for this one thing God has blessed him with.

“The Grinch isn’t real, but you’re doing a great impression of him,” Thor says. He pushes a plate of bagel and eggs at Loki. “Finish your breakfast, we’re going to my place.”

“But we are already here,” Loki complains. He doesn’t complain about the food that’s appeared before him with no effort on his part.

“And if we use our legs, we can be there,” Thor says. “Hurry, we have a stop to make first.”

  
On their way out of Bucky’s building, Loki and Thor run into Vali, who’s wearing an elf hat, elf ears, and elf shoes with bells on the end.

Loki raises an eyebrow at the kid.

“I can explain!” Vali says.

“Okay,” Thor says, nodding. “Go ahead.”

Vali looks at both of them with slowly widening eyes. Then he sighs, exhales and deflates.

“Okay, no I can’t,” he says, to Loki’s snickers and Thor’s laughter.

“Is it for your foster mother?” Thor asks.

“She just left it for me on my bed,” Vali says, dubiously. “No note, no explanation. Now I can’t find her. The doorman said she’d be back soon.”

Loki frowns at him.

“Are you certain? It’s Christmas Eve.”

“There are presents under the tree!” Vali says, suddenly, ignoring Loki’s question entirely. “I think some have to be for me, right?”

“Yeah,” Thor says, grinning at him. “Unless you think she bought all those presents for herself.”

“Well I wouldn’t put it past adults,” Vali mutters. Then he brightens. “I’ve never had multiple presents on Christmas before! This is gonna be so great.”

Thor frowns at that, but Loki knows that feeling well.

“That reminds me,” Loki says. “Do not forget to practice. If you do not perform at the show perfectly, I am giving you lumps of coal.”

Thor elbows Loki, but Vali, puzzled at first, just brightens again.

“Coal, cool!”

Loki stares at Vali. Vali stares back at Loki. Thor stares at both of them.

Then, they all start snickering simultaneously.

“Happy Christmas, Vali,” Loki says.

“It’s Christmas _Eve_ ,” Thor and Vali say together. They grin and share a thumbs up between them.

“ _Merry Christmas Eve is not a real phrase_ ,” Loki says hotly and glares at them both as Thor grabs him by his elbow and leads him out of the building.  

  
“How much farther?” Loki asks. It’s not a proper whine, and yet, he’s been asking the same question for the past ten, frigid blocks. Loki had wanted to take a cab, but evidently freezing in subarctic temperatures was what passed for festive in Thor’s world.

“We’re almost there,” Thor says again, for the fourth time.

Loki is eye roll-accompanied mid-complaint when Thor stops him with a gloved hand over his mouth. Loki muffles protests into the soft material.

“Shut up,” Thor says. “Shh. No--nope. No. Shh.”

Loki glares at him.

“If I let you go, will you be quiet for five minutes and let me surprise you?”

Loki blinks at him.

Slowly, Thor removes his hand from Loki’s mouth.

“Surprise?” Loki asks.

“Yes, Loki,” Thor says, giving Loki an eye roll of his own. “Just take two seconds and let me do a nice thing for you.”

To be clear, every word of that is against Loki’s better judgement and general nature. He shuts his mouth anyway. Thor grins at him.

“Finally.”

He offers Loki his gloved hand and Loki stares at it for a moment, but then takes it. Thor pulls him along, evidently unaware that despite the throngs of people lining the Midtown New York City sidewalk during the holiday season, he’s effectively forcing them to hold hands as he pulls Loki along to their final destination.

  
Which turns out to be the ice skating rink at Rockefeller Center.

“Oh,” Loki says. He watches the skaters and can’t remember the last time he went ice skating or did anything like this, an activity for the unadulterated purpose of pure _fun_.

“I’m not great either,” Thor says, half-interpreting Loki’s expression correctly. “But I thought it’d be fun to do together on Christmas Eve. If you want.”

Loki also can’t remember the last time someone asked him what he wanted, as though it mattered.

“Let’s do it,” he says.

  
They get their shoes and wobble out onto the ice at the same time, both holding their breaths, if not each other, as they adjust to a world on blades on slick ice. Loki casts his arms wide, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of balance. He manages for maybe two minutes before some child skates smoothly past him, upsetting his precarious balance with adjacent movement. He flails his arms out and with a small shout, topples ungracefully onto his ass.

A foot to his left, also wobbling, Thor bursts out laughing.

“Hey!” Loki says in indignation. He reaches out to grab Thor’s pant leg, but Thor yells and skates away enough that he very narrowly manages to avoid toppling over too.

Loki curses and, wincing, pushes himself to his knees and then, slowly, to his feet.

“Whose bright idea was this?” he says out loud in Thor’s general direction.

“There’s always the wall for beginners,” Thor says with a shit-eating grin and manages to skate smoothly forward for maybe two yards.

“Yes, you are really skating circles around me,” Loki grouses. He takes a breath and finds his balance again, or whatever of his balance that’s going to exist for him. Thor comes up next to him.

“Come on,” he says. “Take my hand.”

“I’m not a child,” Loki complains.

“No,” Thor says, impassively. “A child whines less than you do.”

Loki scowls at him and Thor offers his hand again, eyebrows raised.

Loki sighs and takes his hand and then, as they lurch carefully forward together, wraps his arm around Thor’s to hold on better.

Around them, couples are skating similarly, girls and boys, boys and boys, girls and girls, and mothers and daughters and fathers and sons. Siblings hold onto each other and friends race around the rink, laughing and teasing. There’s Christmas music drifting on in the background and Loki can see, immediately above the brightly link rink, the towering Rockefeller tree, all lit up.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Thor sighs happily. He follows Loki’s gaze toward the tree and squeezes Loki’s arm. “It’s my favorite sight in the city.”

“It’s just a tree,” Loki says, like a true Grinch.

“Your posturing is fooling no one,” Thor says. “I saw you watching the lights.”

Loki says nothing to that, although he does feel a little warm around the neck. He and Thor move forward again and it’s easier this time, with Thor to hold onto and lean against. For his part, Thor seems to skate more smoothly too, as though Loki provides the perfect counterbalance to his own massive disequilibrium.   

“Do you want to take a picture in front of it?” Thor asks.

“What for?” Loki’s eyebrows furrow.

Thor blinks at him.

“To have a picture with it,” he says. “The two of us. Documentation of a nice memory.”

“I do not usually document memories,” Loki answers, unthinkingly. 

But then, when he thinks about it, when he thinks of how nice it is here, with Thor’s arm in his own, perilously skating at Rockefeller center, in the dead middle of winter, cold wind gusting against their faces, chafing them pink, the tree winking at them, tourists and native New Yorkers watching them, after a lovely night of bickering and before another lovely night of holiday spirit, Loki thinks--oh, maybe this is exactly the kind of memory one documents.

“Oh,” Thor says, but before he can open his mouth again, Loki squeezes his arm.

“But,” he says. “I suppose there are exceptions to every rule.”

For some reason, this makes Thor smile goofily, almost too wide.

“Yeah?” he asks. “Even in the law?”

“Especially in the law,” Loki says. “Laws are created specifically to allow loopholes.”

“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I kill a man,” Thor grins.

“I am not a criminal defense attorney,” Loki says, patting Thor’s shoulder. “If you kill someone else, please keep that information to yourself.”

Thor laughs and pulls them forward.

  
Fifteen minutes later, their faces pink, Loki’s lips chapped and his mouth hurting from laughing, he watches as Thor tips his head up.

Tiny, crystalline flakes of snow fall, one by one, gently, into his hair. The little, white flakes drift onto his nose and his mouth and his beard and onto the very tips of his very fine, blond eyelashes.

Loki’s heart skips a beat as he watches, engrossed, as little by little, Thor starts sparkling under the weight of light and snow.

When Thor opens his eyes and looks back at Loki, Loki must have a dumb look on his face, because he smiles, warm and a little amused.

Then he reaches one glove over and ruffles Loki’s hair.

“Hey!” Loki protests.

“Sorry,” Thor says, still smiling. “You had so much snow in your dark hair. I was itching to.”

 _What else are you itching to do?_ Loki wonders to himself.

Instead, he smirks.

“Do you know what I’m itching to do?”

“What?” Thor asks.

Loki waits a heartbeat, leans close. Thor watches him, very still, mesmerized.

Then Loki shoves him. Thor shouts and goes down onto ass and Loki nearly falls over himself laughing.

He’s still laughing so hard he can barely breathe when Thor’s hand wraps around his calf and tugs.

“Oof!” Loki cries out as he topples, hard, onto Thor.

“Fuck!” both of them cry out at once.

Loki manages to brace himself on the ice, body half on Thor and half on the ice. But then his gloves slip and he falls onto Thor completely.

They stay like that for a minute, breathing hard, Loki sprawled on Thor sprawled on the ice. They look at one another, faces mere inches apart, breaths mingling.

Then they dissolve into laughter.

  
By the time they get back to Thor’s, they’re both cold and sore and vaguely delirious. Loki’s laughed so much in the past few hours, his stomach still has unfamiliar, residual aches. Loki curls up on couch, shivering. Before Thor disappears to take a shower, he takes one look at Loki’s pathetic sniffling, laughs, and throws a thick sweatshirt at him.

Loki grins as he pulls it on. It’s soft, warm, well-worn, meaning well-loved, with a hood lined with that sherpa-fleece. He pulls the hood up and snuggles into it, subconsciously aware that the hoodie smells like Thor, which is not, altogether, an unpleasant scent. He’s watching Home Alone by the time Thor comes back. Tendrils of wet, tousled blond hair splay across broad shoulders, drying, while he types something on his phone. He’s dressed in sweatpants that ride slightly low on his hips and another soft hoodie, that makes him look like he would be extremely warm and comfortable to fall asleep on.  

Thor looks up as he finishes his message, sees Loki, and half-laughs, half gives him a warm, pleased smile.

“You look comfortable,” he says.

“Shh,” Loki waves his hand at him. “We’re almost to the church scene.”

“Oh,” is all Thor says, because he understands. He puts down his phone and comes and sits next to Loki on the couch.

Loki had always related somewhat to Home Alone, the concept of a child being forgotten and left behind not once, but multiple times, having to fend for himself just to survive. He knows Home Alone isn’t necessarily meant as a metaphor, but it’s always felt like one to him.

Thor sits a little closer than normal and Loki can’t help but lean against him during this scene, with the old man who offers a beacon of kindness to this strange child and who receives kindness in return. Loki’s never believed too much in kindness, but this one scene, for whatever reason, has always made him want to try. Thor, for his part, slings an arm around Loki’s shoulder, the better to hold him up, and he rubs soothing circles into Loki’s back as Loki tilts his head onto Thor’s shoulder. It doesn’t feel strange and even if it did, Loki’s so comfortable at the moment that he wouldn’t think to feel strange anyway.

He tries not to sniffle as the child and the old man talk, but he suspects he doesn’t quite manage.

“Are you….crying?” Thor asks, after a pause.

“No!” Loki says, vehemently.

Thor chuckles, rubs more circles into Loki’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Actually makes me tear up too. It’s the music.”

The scene switches and Loki looks up at Thor.

“The music?”

“It’s so sweet and beautiful,” Thor says. “It sets the perfect backdrop to Kevin and the old man finding and teaching each other.”

“How did it start?” Loki asks him. “Your love for music.”

“Oh.” Thor doesn’t seem like he was expecting this question, so his smile is surprised, but happy. “I used to be an angry kid. No reason, really. I didn’t grow up in a bad home, nothing terrible actually happened to me. I had too much energy, I guess, or I was too big for my age and I didn’t know how to channel that? Maybe I just inherited dad’s temper. But I was always angry and everything would make me snap. Got into more fights than my parents knew what to do with. One day I got suspended from school for socking a kid in the jaw and mom, she just had it with me. It was almost summer break anyway, so she sent me to her adopted brother for a month.”

“What changed there?” Loki asks.

“Well, Heimdall scared the ever-living shit out of me was what happened,” Thor smiles. “He used to be military and he did not suffer fools, especially entitled, spoiled brats. I hated him for the first two weeks. I even swung my fists at him once.”

“What happened?”

“He caught them and dislocated my shoulders,” Thor chuckles. “It sounds bad, but honestly I deserved it. I was an ass. Anyway, I think he felt bad, because after that, he just sat me on the couch instead of talking to me and put on some John Wayne movie. We just started watching movies together after that and--it was Jaws.”

“The...shark movie?” Loki looks skeptical.

“Yeah,” Thor laughs. “It was just--two beats. Two, iconic beats and you knew the monster was coming. Your blood ran cold, your stomach dropped. It fascinated me. I couldn’t get it out of my head. Then I found out Heimdall actually played all sorts of instruments, so I begged him to teach me. It made me calmer, music. Made me a better person.”

Loki looks at Thor, studies the big, open, kind, jovial features he’s come to know so well. He can’t imagine Thor as an angry little shit. Loki was an angry little shit and Thor is nothing like him.

“And then you never stopped,” Loki says.

“I mean like I said, Odin wasn’t thrilled,” Thor quirks half a smile. “But Heimdall told me it was my life and I had to do what made me happy. That’s what it meant to be a man, he said. To make the hard choices and accept the consequences and somehow be happy and make others happy in the end.”

“Sounds like you two made up?”

“Yeah,” Thor says, with a grin. “Once I got over my shit, I realized I really liked him. Ended up spending the entire summer with him.”

Loki’s only had a person like that once, a person to look up to, a person who would set him down and call him out on his shit and leave him feeling like he wanted to be a better person for it. And even then, with Hellbindi, he had been so young, it had only made a passing difference. It certainly hadn’t made Loki any less angry or bitter or cynical or unpleasant in his later years.

He rests his head against Thor’s shoulder again. It’s nice in a familiar way, spending time like this with Thor. There’s no expectations one way or another between them, just two friends, enjoying a movie and each other’s company together. 

Loki’s starting to doze when Thor says, loudly, in his ear, “NOPE” and drags him up. He summarily ignores Loki’s complaints and whining and drags him into the kitchen to begin their Christmas Eve dinner.

  
***

**Bucky. (Christmas Eve)**

  
The thing is, Bucky spends all day thinking about Steve. Steve has a daughter and Steve has a late wife and Steve has a past, but it would be unfair of Bucky to not allow Steve his past, when Steve doesn’t even know Bucky’s present.

He tries to be reasonable about it. He’s too young, this isn’t his daughter, he’s not ready to come into someone’s life he can’t promise he’ll be able to stay for. He lives in New York, he’s an actor. Sometimes he’s gone on shoots for weeks or months at a time. That’s why so many actors end up with other actors, because to live with an actor means accepting the consequences of an actor’s life, which, after a certain status, means: long distance, no privacy, inappropriate fans, long distance. Rarely does someone who isn’t used to or at least exposed to that style of life handle the change very well. And Bucky, for better or worse, and mostly better, he has to remind himself constantly not to take his privilege and success for granted, has reached that status.

So to give himself, all of himself, to Steve, is to be unfair to both of them. Bucky can’t give Steve the stability he and Sarah deserve and Steve can’t give Bucky the space and flexibility he needs. Any way he looks at it, they make no sense, the entire affair is bound to go up in flames.

That’s what Brock had told him, so many years ago, wasn’t it? When he had taken everything Bucky had given him and broken it all into irretrievable pieces. _Look at you_ , he had said. _You ruin everything you touch._

He thinks of Steve Rogers, with his kind blue eyes and gentle touch, his deep laugh, and self-effacing sense of humor. He thinks about how he had looked at his little girl last night, how he had poured his adoration of his late wife into his works. He thinks about how Steve has looked at him and touched him, every time since they’ve met. And Bucky thinks no, he can’t ruin Steve _too_.

 _  
_ Suddenly, Bucky can’t breathe. He’s remembering too many things he never planned on thinking about ever again, a face he had loved, hands that had touched him and showed him how to touch in return, when he had been young and reckless and foolishly unguarded.

Riley, next to him, can sense how Bucky’s freezing up. He barks loudly, nudges Bucky up. Bucky stumbles blindly across the living room and out the front door.

He lands on his knees in the snow, the sharp, biting air digging in through the thin material of his sweatshirt and sweatpants harshly. He claws at the neck of his sweatshirt. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He’s burning up from the inside out.

And the thing that is most apparent to him, amidst his panic attack, when he can’t force enough air into his lungs and can’t seem to move and can’t seem to think around it, is that here, in the snow, he’s all alone.

He had let one man, one stupid, asshole, cocky teenager, take everything that had been good about him and dash it on the rocks. Bucky had never let anyone near him again and now that someone has, unwittingly, gotten past those high, insurmountable defenses, he’s terrified to actually let him in. What if Steve looks and doesn't like what he sees? Bucky doesn't think he would survive it again, the complete rejection of his person.

“It’s not about the kid,” Bucky grinds out, choking on the cold air and his uncontrolled panic. He laughs and tears stream down his face. He shoves his palms against his eyes, digging them in until the pressure makes stars explode into the darkness around him. Next to him, Riley is pressed into his side. He pets him unseeingly, desperately. “Good dog. What a good dog.”

Bucky laughs some more, nearly delirious in his spiral. He holds Riley so hard, the pup yelps. He lets go guiltily.

And then, somehow, in the middle of the billowing, swirling mess of noise and darkness in his head, he can hear Steve’s voice in his head.

 _Hey_ , Steve says, Bucky’s face in between his hands. _Hey, Buck. We thought we had time, and we didn’t._

Bucky takes in a gulp of air. Then another gulp.

_It doesn’t get easier, but it does get more bearable. With time. And the right people._

Bucky’s heart rate starts to go down.

_I’m not going to ask you to take on something you’re not ready for. But I like you._

There’s a ringing in his ear that softly eases away.

_And I want you in my life, if that’s something you’d like as well._

Bucky laughs and wipes the wet away from his face. He slumps down, wraps an arm around Riley, but loosely this time. The dog licks his face, encouragingly.

“Okay,” Bucky says. He breathes in. He breathes out. He breathes normally again. “Okay, Rogers. You got me.”

  
At 11:57 pm on Christmas Eve, Bucky rings Steve’s doorbell.

Three minutes later, at exactly midnight, Steve opens the door, blearily. He’s wearing soft, plush, sky blue robes and slippers on his feet. His golden hair is tousled and his eyes are cloudy with sleep.

“Bucky?” Steve asks.

Bucky leans forward and kisses him.

  
***

**Loki & Thor. (Christmas) **

Loki wakes up to the smell of bacon wafting through the loft. He plods out of bed, blearily stares at his hair (it’s all half-messed curls sticking up at every given angle, obviously), wraps his robe around himself, brushes his teeth, and plods downstairs.

“Merry Christmas!” Thor booms at him. He’s already dressed, hair up in a bun, cooking an extensive breakfast in sweatpants and an ugly sweater that has a reindeer with a red puffball for a nose.

“That is at least a real wish,” Loki says. Thor hands him a cup of coffee and Loki almost tells him he loves him. “Thank you. Merry Christmas to you too. Did you sleep well?”

“It’s _Christmas_ , who cares how well I slept?” Thor is so excitable, he’s nearly bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“You are one of those people, aren’t you?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow over his cup.

“What kind of people? The kind that enjoy life and happiness?”

“One of those Christmas people,” Loki says.

“So the kind that enjoy life and happiness,” Thor says. He slides bacon onto a plate that already has eggs, a muffin, a pastry, a donut, and a small side of fruit and shoves it over to Loki. “Of course I’m a Christmas person, what kind of a person isn’t a Christmas person?”

“I prefer Halloween myself,” Loki says.

Thor just stares at him.

“Of course you do. Why have joy and presents and lights when you could have bats and death?”

“Speaking of death,” Loki says, looking down at his plate. “Are you trying to kill me by sugar, by chance?”

“Are you complaining?” Thor, who has, of course, astutely noticed Loki’s sweet tooth (although, really, anyone with actual eyes could see Loki’s sweet tooth), raises an eyebrow.

“No,” Loki says, shoving the donut in his mouth. “Just clarifying.”

“Eat your sugar mound and be grateful, Laufeyson,” Thor says, pointing the spatula at him.

Loki grins and does as he’s told.

  
After, they gather around the tree with Tom. Thor turns on A Christmas Story on the TV and the two of them divide the packages between them. It had seemed natural that they should buy silly things for one another, since they had planned to spend Christmas together anyway. They had a conversation about it--no item over $10, nothing serious, jokes and fuzzy scarves only.

Uncharacteristically, it turns out that Thor is a meticulous gift unwrapper, while Loki is a tear-at-it-as-fast-as-humanly-possible type. By the time Thor has managed to carefully slide his nail under one corner of his present, Loki’s already staring at his new, fuzzy, green scarf.

He grins at Thor and wraps it around his neck.

“Because you’re always cold and you like the color green,” Thor explains.

Thor finally manages to unwrap his present by the time Loki’s halfway through his second. Thor grins at a stuffed giraffe.

“For your space musical,” Loki says, solemnly. “I will be damned if I watch the terrible thing, but I expect credit nonetheless.”

Loki opens a coffee table book on smoothies next.

“I bookmarked the pages with the green smoothies for you especially,” Thor says with a wink and Loki throws the wrapping paper at him.

Thor’s next present is a set of socks that have assorted shapes and figures on them: musical notes, beagles dressed like astronauts in space, a replica of Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_ , a pack of crayons, multi-colored donuts, and a terrifying clown.

“No explanation,” Loki says. “Socks are a universally great gift.”

Thor laughs and Loki opens his next present, which happens to be a new pair of what looks like expensive yoga pants.

“ _Oh_ ,” Loki says, feeling them under his fingertips. They’re creamy, like butter. “We said $10.”

“Those were $9.99 on sale,” Thor says, innocently.

“You are a terrible liar,” Loki says. “But, thank you.”

Thor grins at him and opens his last present under the tree. It’s a red sweater that has a black cocker spaniel on it that looks _exactly_ like Hela.

“Oh, shit!” Thor’s grin widens. “Wait, this is amazing!”

Loki looks pleased with himself. He had actually liked that selection the best.

“Loki, this is great, I’m going to wear it when we--” he stops, suddenly.

“When we what?”

“Open your last present,” Thor says with a mysterious smile.

Loki casts a suspicious look at him and draws to him something square that’s wrapped in penguin wrapping paper. This one, for some reason, feels different. He unwraps it carefully, like Thor does, although not nearly as slow because he’s not actually as annoying as Thor is.

What emerges from underneath is--oh. _Oh_.

Loki finds himself holding a beautiful, familiar, leather-bound notebook with a snake winding up the side. Above the bronze clasp, also set into the leather, is a small helmet with horns. Loki feels the breath go out of him a little bit. He looks up at Thor.

“I went back for it,” Thor says, meeting Loki’s eyes. His own eyes, a deep blue, glittering and serious, leave no room for interpretation. This was not merely an act of kindness or friendship, but something more. Actual, genuine care. “I thought you could use it for your music. Or for anything else you’d like. It seems like it should belong to you.”

Loki, who is an attorney, Loki who’s known as Silvertongue at work, Loki, who has never not had something to say in any given situation, finds himself at a loss for words in this one. His throat thickens with what can’t be mistaken for anything other than feeling.

“Thor,” he says, meaning to thank him.

“Open it,” Thor says, with a grin.

Loki looks down, undoes the bronze clasp, and opens to the first page.

 _To Loki,_ it says. _I'_ _ve liked all the parts of you I’ve seen. --Thor_

Loki doesn’t know what to say. His vision swims.

“Wait,” Thor says. “One more page.”

Loki turns the page, as instructed.

Nestled between the second and third pages of the journal are two tickets to a Broadway show.

"Thor--" Loki starts, but Thor doesn't let him finish.  
  
“Come on, Laufeyson,” Thor says. He’s already standing. He’s offering Loki a hand. “We’re going to be late.”

Loki stares at the journal. He stares at the Broadway tickets. He stares at Thor’s hand. Then, blinking, heart in his throat, he takes it.

  
They brace slow-running Christmas trains and a light snowfall to trek up toward the Theater District. Loki wraps his new fuzzy, green scarf around his neck and, true to form, Thor is in his new dog sweater under his coat. Loki doesn’t realize how excited he is until he’s in front of the Gershwin Theater. He takes his ticket out of his coat pocket, clasped between tiger mitten-clad fingers.

“I have never been to the theater before,” he says to Thor. He’s hard pressed to keep the thrill out of his voice or the excitement off his face. He’s losing credibility, but he almost doesn’t care.

“I know,” Thor says. “That’s why I got them for you.”

“You broke the $10 rule,” Loki says, giving Thor a warning look.

“I just called in a favor,” Thor says with a smile. “Come on.”

  
Their seats are in the fourth row from the stage in the orchestra section, meaning Loki is nearly front and center for the performance.

“What’s this about?” he asks Thor before the show starts.

“Well,” Thor says. He runs a hand through his hair sheepishly, which only messes it up in an aggravatingly attractive manner. “There was no Peter Pan, so I thought you might like the Wizard of Oz instead.”

“Oh,” Loki says. He takes a breath and turns to Thor, nearly beaming. “I _love_ the Wizard of Oz.”

Thor laughs.

“Let me guess your favorite--the Wicked Witch of the West.”

“ _She was misunderstood!_ ” Loki insists, which makes Thor laugh again for some reason.

Unthinkingly, he squeezes Loki’s hand, which is on the armrest.

“You know,” he says. “I think Gregory Maguire might agree with you.”

“Who?” Loki asks as the lights dim and Thor shushes him.

“Just watch.”

  
It’s honestly, without a doubt, one of the most magical experiences Loki has ever been witness to. He loves the Wizard of Oz and he loves the Wicked Witch of the West and this entire musical is about how everyone should love her too. She’s as misunderstood as Loki has always assumed she is and he leans forward to take it in, engaged with the storytelling and the plot, enchanted by the costumes and the make up and the songs and the staging. The story pulls at his heartstrings and the friendship between Elphaba and Glinda makes him feel strangely emotional, as though he can relate to it himself or, at least, as though this is what he’s wanted for himself all along and never really articulated.

When, at the end, Elphaba gets her happy ending, Loki is so suddenly overcome with feeling that he only notices he’s clutching Thor’s arm in dire need when Thor, wincing, very carefully shakes Loki’s hand off by flipping his arm up.

“Sorry,” Loki whispers, but Thor just shakes his head. Instead, he offers Loki his hand and Loki, unthinkingly, takes it.

Loki goes back to watching the musical, swept away by an enchanted retelling of a fairytale that’s always rang as one note to him. The music doesn’t go unnoticed by him. The music is sweet and loud and vibrant and sweeping. The music sinks into his bones, revives him, and makes him want to sing.

  
“Did you like it?” Thor asks as they leave the theater. He buttons his coat and watches Loki’s face for an answer.

“That was,” Loki says. He starts and stops. He looks at Thor as they exit the theater back into the New York City evening. His chest is thick with feeling. “That was kind of you. Thank you, Thor.”

Thor smiles at him so widely it seems like it might actually break his face.

“Loki,” Thor says. His expression his soft, his eyes softer. When did Loki start holding Thor’s hand again? He honestly cannot remember. Loki swallows, his heart pattering in his chest in a new and unfamiliar way.

Thor opens his mouth to say something, but what that might be is lost to that night alone. Because, suddenly, his eyes flicker up and his expression collapses into a frown.

“Thor?” Loki looks at Thor, frowning, then turns around.

Across the street, is a petite woman with brown hair, linking arms with a man with a mop of curly red hair on his head.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who she might be, based on Thor’s facial expression alone, and luckily, or unluckily, Loki is actually a genius.

“Oh fuck,” he says, softly.

Thor lets go of Loki’s hand and strides across the street.

Loki doesn’t want to watch. He’s been through that heartbreak before, time and time again. With the same person, even. He pulls out his phone instead and checks his messages and his emails.

By the time Thor comes back, Loki’s teeth are chattering and his hands are shaking from the cold. Loki looks up at the big blond and--he can tell by his eyes that he’s devastated.

“Come on,” Loki says, quietly. “Let’s go.”

  
Loki makes Thor a strong cup of tea as Thor, shaking, sits on the couch with his head in his hands.

Thor stares blearily at the tea as Loki tries to hand it to him.

“Do you have anything stronger?”

Loki comes back with vodka.

“Thanks,” Thor says and drinks straight from the bottle.

  
Twenty minutes later, Loki’s also come back with a bowl of macaroni and cheese for both of them and another bottle of vodka, just in case.

“She said she hasn’t been going to her sister’s at all,” Thor says, thickly. “I’m so stupid. All this time, I thought she was with Darcy and instead she was with--”

Loki shushes him, hands him the macaroni.

“Thanks,” Thor says again. The blankness in his voice scares Loki a little. “I knew we weren’t doing great. I knew she wasn’t happy with how much I worked. I knew I wasn't asking the right questions or paying enough attention. But I didn’t think.”

“How long?” Loki asks. It’s not a tactful question, maybe, but if what Thor needs now is to talk it out, then who better to do it with than Loki?

“A month,” Thor says. “They met at lab. He’s some physics genius.”

“It’s her loss,” Loki says. God, he’s bad at this. Platitudes have always rang false to him, the least helpful and most disingenuous form of altruism he can think of. Thor really does deserve better than that from him, but Loki’s never exactly been a bastion of empathy. He tries, though. He presses his thigh and shoulder against Thor’s, hoping physical contact will succeed where his words fail.

“I just.” Thor swallows thickly. He takes a package out of his jacket pocket. “Her necklace. I was going to give it to her the next time I saw her. I almost did anyway. I’m such an idiot.”

Loki offers him the bottle of vodka again. Thor takes it wordlessly and tips it back against his mouth.

“There’s no excuse for cheating,” Loki says. He hears the words ring in his ear, loudly, ringing brightly false. “No matter how difficult a relationship. There is never a reason to break someone’s heart that way.”

 _I can give him what she can’t_ , Loki remembers thinking. _A unique brand of companionship, my mind_. _I don’t care what a terrible person that makes me_.

That makes Loki’s stomach sink. He curses, feeling a little sick himself, and takes the bottle to drink too.

“No,” Thor says, shaking his head. “She’s not like that. This--it was my fault. I should have tried harder. I should have paid more attention. I knew she wasn’t happy and I ignored it. I’m a disaster.”

For some reason, this--Thor taking the blame for himself, Thor heartbroken, Thor thinking he’s the worst person in the room, an actual disaster, when Loki is right there next to him, on the couch--this makes Loki start laughing.

“What?” Thor raises an eyebrow. His eyes are bloodshot. His breath smells like vodka.

Loki can’t stop laughing, now that he’s started. Three years of love and longing and hiding in a fucking closet and that horrible, awful engagement announcement and Baldur’s phone call and the sight of Nanna, her belly swelling with child, Loki’s sick need to still be there for Baldur, to still have him, to still love him--all of it. The weight of his terrible love life and all of the awful decisions he’s made crushes him, on this couch, on Christmas, next to the best person he has ever met.

“Loki,” Thor says, touching his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Loki finally chokes out. He’s still laughing, although now he’s also hiccuping, a disconcerting combination that slows down everything and brings him slightly back to sanity. “No I am not. You think you’re a disaster? I didn’t come here for vacation, Thor. I came here to run away from my problems. One problem, in particular. A single man. You think you love someone, you think they love you back, you think finally, _finally_ you have found this person, your person, a person who will forgive your faults and love your flaws and you are happy together, for a while, because with him you feel good about yourself, you feel alive."

"With him, you feel like a different version of yourself, someone who is wanted, someone who has potential. Not a fucked up kid who has been through every foster home in the system, whose drug-addicted mother left him and whose deadbeat father he never knew. With him, you feel like you could be someone worth loving or at least liking, because he fills you with a sort of--joy, an understanding or light and every cliche you ever thought was stupid becomes true for you. His happiness is your happiness, he is you and you are him, and then, one day, before you realize it, three years have passed and you would give your life for him, just cut your heart out and present it to him on a platter, but he doesn’t love you at all, tells you you’re not a right fit, round hole and square peg or some bullshit, and you ignore that, you ignore the fact that he never takes you out and that he never wants to tell anyone about you and he never defends you and that for _three years_ he has hidden you in the closet, like a horrible, broken plaything that he only brings out for his own amusement and only when he’s bored with all of his other playthings.”

Loki takes a shaky breath. He doesn’t see Thor. He’s barely in this room at all. He’s shaking. In his vision, Baldur and Nanna, Nanna and Baldur, and a moment where Baldur promises him he hasn’t forgotten his gift, but which Loki knows to be a lie anyway.

“And then, one day, you’re in the middle of a company holiday party and you are ready to tell him you love him and instead, someone else tells you he’s engaged and that he and his fiancee are already expecting a _child_. They tell it to you from a stage, an announcement, with everyone surrounding you and cheering, like your entire life isn't falling to pieces in front of you, and you run from that, you try to forget, but then he _sends you his fucking documents and tells you thinks like you’re a genius and a lifesaver and he just couldn’t live without you_.”

Thor is staring at Loki, eyes large, shocked.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, Loki.”

“So, you see,” Loki says, laughing, shakily. “You aren’t the biggest disaster in this room after all. Compared to me, your life is a fairytale.”

“Fuck,” Thor says. He hands Loki the bottle. “You need this more than me.”

Loki tilts it back and drains a quarter of it without taking a breath.

When he reemerges, he looks at Thor with red, watery eyes. Thor looks back at him.

“Okay,” he says. “No.”

Loki hiccups.

“What?”

“ _No_ ,” Thor says. “We’re not letting either of them ruin our Christmas. We’re going to get off this couch and I’m going to make my famous Penne alla Vodka and we’re going to play cards and watch it snow and get drunk off of wine and eat those Italian cookies I picked up and we’re going to have ourselves a Merry Fucking Christmas.”

Thor says this all so firmly, almost so viciously, that Loki can only stare at him.

“Come on,” Thor says and that seals it.

Loki puts the bottle down.

“Okay,” he says. “Come on.”

  
They forget about Jane and Baldur for the evening, make themselves forget even when they can’t stop stray thoughts from wandering back to them. Thor makes his Penne alla Vodka and Loki warms up the cookies and turns on Christmas music and they slow dance around the kitchen to wine and Mariah Carey, until finally their shoulders loosen and they bump into each other and they remember how to laugh again.

“This is _amazing_ ,” Loki says, a little drunk, eating Thor’s Penne alla Vodka with vigor.

“I _know_ ,” Thor says. “ _Right?_ ”

“No, Thor,” Loki says, wide, glassy eyes and a mouthful of pasta. “This is. _Amazing_.”

Thor laughs and stuffs more pasta in his mouth. He washes it down with wine and then stands up.

“I have to show you something!”

Loki stands up immediately.

“Okay!”

“No,” Thor laughs. “Wait, sit down. Stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” Loki says. “You’re stupid.”

Thor shushes him with his hands and finds Bucky’s guitar and comes back down to sit next to Loki on the couch.

“I wrote the giraffe a theme song,” Thor says, with a smile.

“What?” Loki looks at him, his mouth slightly askew.

Thor grins and starts playing it. It’s a quirky tune that somehow seems tall and languorous, like a giraffe. Loki laughs.

“And this is for the space poet,” Thor says.

This time, when he plays, his fingers dancing over the strings, it’s a little slower, a little sadder. It’s the tune of someone who has the words and can’t use them, whose love is a tragedy.

“Oh,” Loki sighs.

Thor looks at him when he finishes. He doesn’t look away. Loki can feel his cheeks warming.

“And this one is yours,” Thor says, softly.

“Mine?” Loki whispers.

Thor starts strumming.

Loki can feel it in his chest, the  _thud-thud-thud_ of his heart.

Thor finishes sweetly and smiles.  
  
“I used only the good notes.”

  
Later in the night, after too much pasta and too many cookies and too much wine, Thor is lying on the couch, his head in Loki’s lap. His eyes are closed and he’s snoring slightly. He’s fallen asleep.

Loki sits still, looking down at this big, stupid, beautiful, warm, open blond with what cannot be mistaken for anything other than affection. Loki’s theme buzzes in his head. It had been both slow and mysterious, with bright spots of happiness hidden beneath, layers of music and notes woven together to create something that was not easy to decipher, but was undoubtedly beautiful. It told an entire story, the tiny little piece. It told worlds of stories, like there was an entire sweet, fascinating, decent life buried under layers. The piece imbued in a single tune, if possible, all of the warmth and goodness Thor thinks Loki has.  
  
Loki had felt beautiful, in that moment. He heard his theme song and saw himself, for the first time, the way Thor saw him. It had made his throat dry. He had touched Thor’s arm in thanks and he touches Thor’s hair now. He moves his fingers deftly through the blond strands, raking through them.

After a brief hesitation, he leans forward and presses a kiss to Thor’s forehead.

Thor continues sleeping.

Then, Loki starts braiding two, thin braids into Thor’s hair. When he finishes, he takes a package out of his pocket. Inside, nestled in a white box with a green ribbon, he takes out two beautiful, silver hair clips. They could be hammers or music notes.

Loki places the clips into Thor’s hair. They glint silver among gold, beautiful and dainty and perfect, as though they’ve been there all along. Loki smiles. For the first time, in a very, very long time, it feels like everything might be okay.

  
***

**Bucky & Steve (Christmas)**

Bucky wakes up in Steve’s bed the next morning. He can tell because when he turns his head, there’s a nose and a mop of blond hair above it pressed into Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky can’t help the little flip in his chest as he feels the rest of Steve, firm and sturdy, pressed against his side. He grins and reaches down, finds Steve’s hand and threads his fingers through.

Approximately thirty seconds later, he hears a loud voice from the hallway, “ _Daddy! Presents!_ ”

Steve groans and shifts. He refuses to open his eyes, just tucks himself further into Bucky’s side. Bucky is so fucking charmed it’s actually difficult for him to comprehend. He takes his free hand and threads it through Steve’s hair, pushing his unruly bangs back.

At the touch, Steve finally opens his eyes.

“Hi,” Bucky says, with a grin.

“Shh,” Steve says. “If we don’t say anything, she won’t remember--”

“ _You have exactly two minutes before I open this big one with the bow!_ ” comes Steve’s daughter’s little voice from down the stairs.

“Wow,” Bucky laughs.

“Don’t say it,” Steve warns.

“She’s exactly the daughter you deserve,” Bucky says.

“I told you not to say it!” Steve says. He shoves at Bucky’s shoulder, but that just makes it easier for Bucky to roll onto his side and face him.

“Hi,” Bucky says again.

“Hey yourself,” Steve says with a smile.

Bucky, heart skipping, leans forward and presses another kiss to Steve’s mouth.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“Eurgh, morning breath,” Steve makes a face.

“You _asshole!_ ” Bucky says loudly and Steve laughs and then reaches up to cup Bucky’s face and kiss him back, deeply.

The kiss is just getting heated when, again, a familiar voice floats up the stairs toward them.

“ _Sixty seconds and counting, old man!_ ”

“Holy shit,” Bucky says, in awe. “I think she’s my hero.”

Steve laughs.

“I do this to myself,” he says with a sigh. Then, painstakingly, he pushes himself to a sitting position. “Okay, Barnes. Get dressed, so my daughter only suspects a little that daddy’s new friend isn’t just a _friend_.”

“Yeah, Rogers,” Bucky says, getting up himself. “Control yourself. You can’t be undressing me with your eyes every time you look at me.”

“Can’t believe it’s Christmas and you’re punishing me this way,” Steve says.

Bucky snorts and goes to move to the bathroom, when Steve catches him by the wrist.

“Hey, wait,” he says. He pulls Bucky toward him and gives him another slow, luxurious kiss. “Merry Christmas.”

Bucky grins, a little pink, and goes to change.

  
When Bucky reemerges and comes down the stairs, Sarah’s already torn through three presents. Steve’s watching her from his kitchen, which is an open concept, just beyond the living room with the big tree and the big, blue rug Sarah and a small pup are currently sitting on. He’s sipping at a cup of coffee with an amused look on his face.

“Hey,” Bucky says. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh look,” Sarah says, looking up from the doll she’s currently holding. “It’s daddy’s friend.”

“Sarah,” Steve says, disapprovingly.

“Kidding! Hi Bucky!” she beams at him. She turns the doll toward Bucky. It’s a Disney character he only barely recognizes as one he briefly watched the trailer for. “Aunt Sharon gave me her. She’s my favorite.”

“Who is it?” Bucky asks.

“Moana,” Sarah says matter-of-factly. “She’s not a Disney Princess, but that’s why she’s the best. She can sail. _And_ do magic. And her best friend is a chicken and a pig. Ideal, really.”

Bucky looks at Steve, eyebrows raised, and Steve snorts into his coffee.

“Here, I made you coffee,” Steve says. Bucky walks toward the kitchen as Sarah unwraps another present.

“Ohh the best Christmas present of all,” Bucky says, taking the mug from him.

Steve squints at Bucky and then back at Sarah, who is now unwrapping what looks like a book. A second later, she shrieks “ _Yes! Harry Potter!_ ”

“Granted I was half-delirious when you came here last night, but did you hand me two cheese logs?”

Bucky nearly chokes on his coffee.

“Does that sound like something I would do?”

Steve gives him a deadpan look.

“Yes.”

“Well then, what’s the third degree for, pal?” Bucky asks, loudly.

Steve laughs. “Well thanks. I actually love cheese logs. I assume the Kinder toy wasn’t for me?”

“I have a different present for you later,” Bucky murmurs into his mug and he can hear the slight inhale of breath Steve takes. Bucky smirks. “But yeah, the Kinder toy is for your kid.”

Steve puts his mug down and turns back to the kitchen. He fetches the gift bag that Bucky brought him.

“Give it to her.”

Bucky looks at him nervously.

“She’s seven, Buck,” Steve says. “She stopped biting a long time ago. And she loves chocolate and she’ll love you.”

Bucky takes a breath and nod. He takes the bag and goes and sits on the ground next to Sarah.

Apparently, after _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ , the last thing Sarah unwrapped was a toy for the dog, because she’s in front of him, her blond curls flopping into her face, deeply reminiscent of a certain other blond Bucky knows, waving it at him. The dog, a small, fluffy black and white shih tzu, yaps in her face.

“What’s his name?” Bucky asks.

“Monty,” she says. “You wanna play with him?”

“Sure. Let’s trade?” Bucky holds out the gift bag for her. Sarah’s face immediately brightens.

“Is that for me?” She immediately grabs the bag and gives the toy to Bucky. It’s some ridiculous chew toy that Bucky isn’t certain isn’t a little, bright neon blue monster. Monty immediately jumps up on his hind legs and starts chewing on the monster’s horn. Or tail. Or...arm?

“Oh!” Sarah exclaims a second later. Her little face, so much Steve, lights up. “Oh, I _love_ Kinder Eggs! And the toy egg man is so cute!”

Bucky feels his face warm, pleased. Should he be this nervous about a seven year old? Because he _is_.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“Yes!” Sarah gleefully opens the toy to pry out a Kinder egg. Monty barks at the motion and forgets Bucky to toddle over to his friend. “Monty, shoo! Go bother Bucky!”

Bucky laughs and suddenly feels a warm presence at his side. He smiles as Steve sits down next to him.

“Monty, come here,” Steve says and the dog listens. He comes and curls up on his lap. “We got him two years ago. Thought he would make both of us a little less sad.”

“Did it work?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah.” Steve smiles and strokes the dog’s fur. “As much as he could.”

Sarah opens one of the eggs and starts chewing on the chocolate.

“This is a Good Present, Bucky,” Sarah informs him. “Once, last year, Aunt Sharon tried to set daddy up with someone and she brought me lotion. I was six.”

Bucky looks at Sarah and then he looks at Steve. Sarah looks back at him. Steve looks at everyone.

They all start snickering.

“Okay, she was bad,” Steve says. “I think your Aunt Sharon felt bad about that.”

“Aunt Sharon doesn’t have great taste,” Sarah tells Bucky. “So you’re doing great already.”

Bucky cannot believe this child. Bucky also cannot believe how much he likes her.

“Finish your presents, Sarah,” Steve says. “You know we have to be out of here by noon.”

“Where are we going?” Bucky asks.

“The movies,” Steve says. “It’s a tradition. The theater shows old movies on Christmas and we always go together.”

“What are they showing this year?” Bucky asks, following Steve’s lead and getting up.

“It’s a good one,” Steve says, smiling. “Roman Holiday.”

  
Bucky holds Steve’s hand throughout the movie unabashedly this time. He sighs in his usual places, tears up in his usual places, and when it’s all getting too much, lays his head on Steve’s shoulder. Steve smiles at the screen and runs a hand through Bucky’s hair, then leans over to kiss the top of it.

Bucky can recite this movie from memory and he almost does, too.

 _At midnight, I'll turn into a pumpkin and drive away in my glass slipper,_ Audrey Hepburn says.

 _And that will be the end of the fairy tale_ , Gregory Peck replies.

And then, his favorite answer, _I could do some of the things I've always wanted to._

Bucky holds Steve’s hand and repeats the line to himself. _I could do some of the things I’ve always wanted to_.

  
“One cup of hot chocolate,” Steve tells Sarah, after.

“Okay,” Sarah says. “I hear what you’re saying. Two cups.”

“One.”

“Two.”

“ _A single cup, Sarah Carter Rogers_.”

Bucky’s not really surprised when Sarah starts slurping on her second cup. Steve sighs and looks at Bucky sheepishly. 

 _It’s Christmas_ , Steve mouths at Bucky.  
  
_Yeah, okay, buddy_ , Bucky mouths back.

“I know you’re both talking about me,” Sarah says out loud.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Time for you to go to Aunt Sharon’s.”

  
It’s a Christmas tradition for Sarah to spend half the day with Steve and half the day with Peggy’s sister and her parents, apparently. Steve is always, always invited and Steve usually accepts, except this time, when he shows up with Bucky, Sharon gives both of them a knowing look.

“So I’ll tell my parents no this year?” she says, with a deadly raised eyebrow.

“If that’s okay,” Steve says. He turns a little pink.

“Daddy has a new “ _friend”_ ,” Sarah says. She puts quotation marks around the word friend.

“ _Sarah_ ,” Steve groans and Sharon laughs.

“I like him, though,” Sarah says with a smile. She turns to Bucky, her little backpack of nightclothes and new toys on her back. “I saw you crying during the movie.”

“I saw _you_ crying during the movie,” Bucky shoots back.

Sarah Carter Rogers grins. She looks exactly like Steve, but with an edge. Like this, she actually looks exactly like the woman whose portraits he saw back at the gallery.

“I liked it,” she says. “I like Audrey Hepburn.”

“Me too,” Bucky says.

Sarah beckons Bucky forward. Dubiously, ignoring the amused look that both Sharon and Steve give him, he leans forward.

“I saw you holding hands with daddy,” she whispers to him.

Bucky tries not to laugh or turn too pink. Seriously, he nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I liked it. Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Sarah whispers back. “I think you make him happy. I got more presents this year than I usually do.”

Bucky has to snicker at that. Sarah grins at him.

“He’s always sad, because of mama and because of me,” she says. “He worries too much. But he’s been more...smiley lately. Because of you, probably. I like him that way.”

Bucky’s heart twists and it’s with effort that he doesn’t look back at Steve.

“Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”

Sarah studies him, the most critical look of a seven year old possible, then finally leans back.

“Will you come back, Bucky?” she asks at a normal tone, tilting her head.

Bucky hesitates. He squats down to face her, the little angelic demon he’s only just met and already likes a whole lot.

“I’ll try my darndest, kid,” he says.

“Gosh, you’re not actually _in_ Roman Holiday,” Sarah says, but she’s smiling hard. She extends her pinky. “Promise?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, taking her pinky with his own and shaking on it. “Promise.”

Sarah’s satisfied with that. She then turns to Steve and reaches out her arms. Steve bends down and sweeps her up into a hug that nearly crushes her.

“ _Can’t--breathe_ \--” Sarah wheezes.

“Love you to the moon and back,” Steve says, kisses the top of her head and releasing her. “Don’t drive your grandparents too crazy.”

“To the moon and back,” Sarah echoes. “And no promises.”

They look at each other and the love and affection and camaraderie between them is so much, so evident that Bucky can barely stand to watch. They’re the two musketeers, two halves of the same whole, it’s been the two of them against the world. Three years ago, their lives had been torn apart, and they’ve had to build it back again, together, and it shows. Bucky doesn’t know that he’s ever seen that kind of adoration in anyone’s eyes, the way that Steve looks at his daughter. It’s pure, uncomplicated love and seeing it this way, Bucky thinks it seems like the simplest thing in the world, being able to give and receive that love.

“Merry Christmas, guys,” Sharon says as Sarah skips inside to her grandparents.

“Merry Christmas, Sharon,” Steve says. He gives her a hug too and kisses her cheek.

He turns away, so he doesn’t see the wink she gives them, but Bucky certainly does.

  
They get back to Steve’s place, a cute little cottage in its own right, and Steve lights the fire and some candles and turns on something on his record player, like the nerd he is. It’s Sinatra, of course, a slow, romantic song that winds its way sleepily through the background.

“Will you dance with me?” Steve asks with a smile.

Bucky takes his hand and they go around and around and sway against each other, lazily. Steve leads and Bucky rests his head against Steve’s shoulder. The fire crackles behind them, warming the chilled air until it feels like a kind of dream. Bucky can feel Steve’s heat through his shirt, can smell soap and cinnamon on his skin. He turns his head and presses a kiss to Steve’s neck.

Steve, his hand to Bucky’s lower back, wheels them around. They fit perfectly together. It’s slow, it’s luxurious, it drives Bucky out of his mind with hazy comfort.

They talk sometimes, but the silence is comfortable too. Steve hums to Sinatra and Bucky feels the reverberations between them, feels the music sink in through his chest, down to his bones. It’s the perfect Christmas moment, presents unwrapped, dog asleep, snow outside, and a fire on the hearth. Bucky thinks he could stay like this forever.

“Hey,” Steve says, softly, eventually.

Bucky pulls back, expression vague and sleepy. He gives Steve a lazy half-smile.

“Yeah?”

Steve places two fingers under Bucky’s chin and tilts his face up. Bucky looks up and--oh. He smiles.

“Mistletoe,” he says.

“Mistletoe,” Steve agrees.

“Guess you gotta kiss me,” Bucky says. “Or I’ll die.”

“Well, we don’t want that,” Steve says, also with a smile. He frames Bucky’s face and leans in.

  
They dance, winding around each other, swaying together, for long enough that the fire eventually starts to die down. Steve puts another log in and Bucky gets blankets and pillows and sets up a bed on the ground in front.  
  
Steve cups Bucky’s face with one hand, his fingers pushing back into his hair. He leans forward and kisses him again.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, softly, against Bucky’s mouth.

“You too,” Bucky replies. He slips a hand up Steve’s sweater and helps him out of it.

They undress each other in front of the fire, slowly kissing, slowly murmuring, slowly running hands over planes of skin, memorizing lines and mouthing devotion into the spaces they find. They’re slow and they’re romantic and they tease each other out until the crackling of the fire is all that’s left of each of them, each crackle and pop synchronizing in time with Bucky’s own breathing and Bucky's own heartbeat, a _thud_ \-- _thud--thud._


	12. The Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thor chuckles. Loki reaches forward and very carefully, delicately tucks two pieces of hair that have come loose from the bun. They curl gently down the side of Thor’s face. Loki sucks in a breath. Try as he might, he can’t help but notice how gorgeous Thor looks.
> 
> “There,” Loki says. “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the Twelfth Day of Ficmas, my True Love gave to me, everything 85,000 words (seriously) has been leading up to. 
> 
> I can't believe somehow the idea for a silly, The Holiday AU fic spawned into an 85,000+ word monster? We're here at the end! Only the epilogue after this. Thank you so much reading and commenting and enjoying this fic! I hope it made your holiday season brighter. 
> 
> And, for today, Merry Christmas to all who celebrate and those who just like lights, hot chocolate, and a little bit of cheesy, holiday fluff.

**Loki.**

Loki straightens his tie and his coat in the mirror as he finishes speaking to the woman on the other end of the phone.

“Yes,” he says. “7 pm. That is the correct location. If you do not, he will be--Yes, very well. I will see you there.”

He ends the call and puts his cell phone on the top of the dresser and leans in closer, finishing looping the tie through. He’s wearing a nice green shirt, a black and green argyle tie, and a nice black suit. Loki’s not entirely sure what the protocol is for a children’s holiday event, but he isn’t going to risk showing up underdressed. He isn’t a neanderthal.

“Hey,” Thor pops his head into the bedroom from the hallway. Loki’s managed to convince him to dress up for the occasion too. Instead of his usual infuriatingly well-tailored jeans and long shirts rolled up to the elbow, Thor is wearing a pair of slacks and a red button up that is rolled up to his elbow. The neck is open because Loki could not convince him to wear a tie, but Thor’s hair is pulled up and out of his face, and overall, he looks, well, handsome.

“Are you ready?” Loki asks. “Vali shall kill us both if we are late for his great debut.”

“For the record, of the two of us, you are the only one still getting ready,” Thor says. Loki snorts and stops his own fussing to cross to Thor.

Thor grins down at him and Loki can’t help but return it with a sly smile of his own. Thor turns his head from side to side. There are two braids that have been swept up into the bun, but the two, gleaming silver hammers are clear on each side.

“What do you think?”

Something in Loki’s chest warms.

“I think someone has great taste,” Loki says.

Thor chuckles. Loki reaches forward and very carefully, delicately tucks two pieces of hair that have come loose from the bun. They curl gently down the side of Thor’s face. Loki sucks in a breath. Try as he might, he can’t help but notice how gorgeous Thor looks.

“There,” Loki says. “Perfect.”

“You’re the best, Loki,” Thor says. He looks down at Loki so delightedly, with so much tenderness, that Loki has to look away.

“Listen,” Loki starts, because Thor is going to march into this holiday concert and be one of _those dads_ , he’s already positive, even though he isn’t Vali’s father, but acts like it anyway. But before he can quite manage to get another word out, Thor’s phone rings.

“Hold on,” he says. He fishes out his phone, shooting Loki a grin, and then answering. “Hello?”

Thor’s face falls immediately. Or, more accurately, his expression loses its levity and shine. His shoulders tense, the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Uh huh,” Loki hears him say as he steps back into the hallway. “Yeah. Okay. When? I’ll--look, I have a thing but. ...okay. I’ll try.”

Loki’s absentmindedly fixing his hair when Thor comes back.

“That was Jane,” Thor says. He looks a little shell-shocked. He looks at the phone in his hand, as though he can’t quite believe it, and then back at Loki. “She misses me. She wants to get back together.”

Loki’s stomach drops. Selfish creature that he is, his first thought isn’t happiness for his friend, but a simmering kind of resentment, or a sharp stab of jealousy. He feels loss sharply, although there’s nothing to lose here and this certainly isn’t about him. He tries to rally, hide that miserable, jealous, selfish portion of himself from Thor behind an easy smile. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes, but it’s a good enough effort for the moment.

“See? I told you, she would realize it was her loss and she has.”

“Loki, I--” Thor exhales raggedly, almost runs a hand through his hair before he realizes he’s done it up nice for the concert. “She wants to meet on the Upper East Side, where her labs are. It’s going to be a trek.”

“Go,” Loki says, although it costs him to do so.

“I’ll try to come back,” Thor says. “You know I won’t miss Vali’s debut if I can help it.”

“I’ll tell him,” Loki says. He presses a palm to Thor’s shoulder. “Go now. Get your girl.”

It costs him to say it too, but he wraps that hurt up in all of the other hurts he’s had in life, tucks it away to a corner he will try never to touch again.

“I’ll be quick,” Thor says. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Distracted, rushing, unthinking, Thor presses a kiss to Loki’s head before disappearing in a whirlwind down the stairs.

Loki turns to look at his reflection in the mirror. He looks a lot more disappointed than he thought he would look. He takes a breath and brushes his hair to his liking, straightens his tie once more, and tousles some of his curls at the bottom so they fall the way he likes them to fall. This, at least, he can control. When he’s satisfied with his reflection, he goes downstairs.

  
He’s crossed to the kitchen when his own phone rings.

“Hello?” Loki answers before looking. He assumes it will be Thor or Vali or--

“Lo,” a familiar voice washes over him, a baritone he would recognize in his sleep.

A pause, as Loki’s steps falter.

“Baldur,” Loki says. He closes his eyes.

“So you do remember,” comes Baldur’s voice, rakish over the line. “Was starting to think you had forgotten all about me.”

Loki swallows. “You know I could never forget you, Baldur.”

“It’s nice to be reminded,” Baldur says. “Happy Christmas, Lo. Did you have a nice one?”

There’s that feeling again, the familiar one, like an anchor in his chest that keeps dragging him down. But he hasn’t heard from Baldur in so long that there’s something else there now too. He feels...askew, like the world is shifting beneath his feet.

“Yes,” Loki says, faintly.  “And you?”

“Wasn’t the same without you. I missed you,” Baldur says. “God, I missed you more than I thought. Did you get my present?”

Loki’s eyes fly open.

“Your present?”

“Yes, goose.” Loki can hear Baldur grin on the other end of the line. “Your Christmas present. I sent it over a few days ago. Perhaps the doorman put it somewhere?”

“Oh,” Loki says. Despite himself, he feels flustered, even excited. He looks around, on the couch, under the coffee table, on the kitchen table, on the side table. “There’s nothing here, Baldur. What was it?”

“I can’t ruin the surprise,” Baldur says.

Loki frowns just as the buzzer for the elevator sounds. Without thinking, he presses the button.

“It’s not here, I’m telling you,” Loki says into the phone. “Baldur?”

A few seconds later, the elevator door opens with a quiet wheeze.

Standing inside, pale blond hair tucked behind his ear, a leather jacket stretching across broad shoulders he knows so well, hands in his pockets, is Baldur, grinning.

“Surprise,” he says.

  
At first, Loki thinks he’s hallucinating. But then Baldur lifts a hand and slides it through his own hair and the movement is enough, it makes him real.

Loki can’t breathe. He can feel his heart go off-rhythm, skittering in an odd beat. His face feels warm and his neck and his fingers are tingling, is that normal?

Baldur, here. Baldur in New York City.

“Baldur, what are you doing here?”

“I came to see you, goose,” Baldur laughs. “I missed you. Didn’t I already say that? It was driving me crazy and I hadn’t heard from you and it’s the holidays and--here I am. Didn’t you miss me too?”

“Of course,” Loki says. Is he breathless? “Yes, of course I missed you.”

Baldur beams at him and it’s a smile he’s never quite given Loki before, something bright and happy, like he wants to be here, like he wants this, like he wants Loki. _I came to see you_ , the words reverberate in his head, affections Baldur’s never given him before.

“Nice place, Lo,” Baldur says with a smile, stepping inside. He looks around the penthouse with a critical eye, always, in the end, coming back to look at Loki. “It suits you. This suits you.”

Loki’s not sure how to interpret that.

“Thank you?”

“You look good,” Baldur says. He not so subtly rakes his eyes up and down Loki’s body and Loki feels the thrill in his stomach. He’s warm behind his ears.

“You just left Nanna and came here?” Loki asks. “To see me?”

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” Baldur laughs. He steps closer to Loki, a hand on his neck. “I missed you. I guess I’ll say it as many times as you need me to.”

Loki tries to get his bearings, he really does. Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, he recognizes that this is the least Baldur can do after so many years of Loki wearing his heart on his bloody sleeves, but Baldur is saying all of the right things, touching Loki in all of the right ways, looking at him in a way Loki has been begging to be looked at for so long.

“Show me around?” Baldur says.

“Okay,” Loki says. “But only for a moment. I have somewhere to be.”

“You?” Baldur laughs and Loki, for a moment, feels the gap in space between this new Baldur and the one he’s known all along. It’s a mean laugh. He frowns, but then Baldur shakes his head. “I only mean you’re always working. You’ve never had anywhere to be.”

“I do now,” Loki says. “Someone’s waiting for me.”

He means Vali, but a dark expression flickers across Baldur’s face anyway. Loki just misses seeing it.

“Well give me a tour, at least,” Baldur says. “Of where you’ve been living these past few weeks.”

Loki looks at the clock and he sees there’s just enough time for him to do as Baldur asks before going to see Vali.

“There’s a deck upstairs,” he says and puts his phone on the kitchen counter.

Baldur’s grin is blinding.

  
They end up sitting on Bucky’s outdoor seating, a fire lit in the pit in front of them. Baldur is turned toward Loki, his full attention on him and Loki’s flourishing under it. His knee is pressed to Baldur’s thigh and Baldur’s hand is on Loki’s knee.

Loki is laughing at some story Baldur is telling about how Freya and Dum Dum ended up in a locked room together and she almost murdered Dugan entirely.

“I really thought she would,” Baldur says, crossing himself. “Upon my honor. She had blood in her eyes.”

“Remind me to never get on Freya’s bad side,” Loki says with a grin.

“She would put your head on a pike and come back for your body,” Baldur agrees.

Loki’s cheeks ache from laughing and his face, wind bitten, is rosy from the cold. His hair, carefully arranged before, has come a little undone. His eyes are a vibrant green in the cool winter day. He looks younger than he has in years.

Baldur stares at him, smiling.

“You look so good, Lo,” he says. “Really. New York suits you.”

“It has been good to me,” Loki says. “Perhaps I will never come back.”

“Don’t do that,” Baldur murmurs. His hand slowly creeps on top of where Loki’s rests on his thigh. Loki’s heart stutters. He looks down at their hands.

“What does London have to offer that New York doesn’t?” Loki asks, quietly.

“Better restaurants,” Baldur says. He rubs a thumb over the back of Loki’s hand. “Better shopping.” He brushes his fingertips over Loki’s wrist, feeling his racing pulse. “Better people.”

Loki’s enchanted. Of course he’s enchanted. His throat is dry.

“People?” he asks.

“Person,” Baldur amends. His fingers climb up Loki’s arm. “A specific one.”

Loki takes a shuddering breath and, with effort, looks up at Baldur.

“You’re still mine, aren’t you?” Baldur asks. His fingers tangle in Loki’s hair, skim down his cheek and jaw. “I haven’t lost you, have I?”

His thumb brushes Loki’s mouth and Loki shakes his head.

“That’s my boy,” Baldur grins. He leans forward, presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss into the space just below Loki’s mouth. Loki shudders. His hand is in Baldur’s hair, cupping Baldur’s neck, drawing him forward.

“Where’s this been for the last three years?” Loki murmurs and Baldur laughs lowly, hotly, just above Loki’s mouth.

Baldur shifts and is nearly straddling Loki, who is seconds from being out of his mind with desire, when something about what Baldur said registers with him. _That’s my boy._ _Boy._

“Are you still with Nanna?” Loki asks.

Baldur, his mouth moving up, just a breath away from giving Loki a real kiss, stops.

“What?”

“Nanna,” Loki says. The sound is suddenly rushing back to him. The cold air fills the space between them. He blinks. “Are you with her? Are you still engaged?”

“What kind of a question is that?” Baldur asks, going for defensive and wronged. It’s the wrong move. Loki nearly hisses.

“The right one,” he glares.

“I don’t think you understand,” Baldur says with a groan, changing tactics. “How confused I am.”

“That’s--” Loki blinks, breathing in and out. “That’s not a no.”

“Loki--”

“You are still with her,” Loki says. “You are still having a child with her.”

“Loki, please,” Baldur says, but Loki can feel it coming back up his throat again, the bile, the self-loathing, the hatred. The heartbreak. He puts a hand between them, on Baldur’s chest, and shoves him away. “You are being ridiculous.”

“I’m being ridiculous,” Loki says, staring at him. “Me. _Me? You are engaged and having a child with another woman._ ”

“What would you like me to do about it?” Baldur snaps at him. His expression, which has been flickering from romantic to hurt to defensive, now flickers to angry. “Leave her? Leave my _child_?”

Loki is--Loki can’t breathe. Loki can’t believe his ears. He gets up and Baldur follows him, a hand at his elbow.

“Lo--” he tries again and Loki just shakes him off.

“For years,” Loki says. “Three whole years I loved you. Three whole years I have given you _everything_ you asked for. Things you didn’t ask for. I have skinned myself alive and bled for you.”

“That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?” Baldur asks. Again, it’s the wrong thing to say. Baldur has never been so thrown off his game. He keeps making missteps, losing his upper hand. He, who always has so much power, who has _all_ of the power, finds it slipping through his fingers.

“You were right--” Loki says, eyes flashing, breathing angrily. “You were right and I was too stupid to realize it.”

“What?” Baldur looks at him, confused.

“Very square peg,” Loki spits out. “Very round hole. You said that to me once.”

“That isn’t--” Baldur says. “You’ve misinterpreted.”

Loki looks at him, a man he has devoted himself, his body, his heart, his mind to for three whole long, warped, twisted years. Baldur looks at him with hurt blue eyes and all Loki sees is years of manipulation.

“You’ve kept me because you knew you could,” Loki says. “You only came here because I was finding my feet away from you. Because suddenly I didn’t _need_ you anymore.”

“That is absurd,” Baldur says, angrily.

“I look at you and I feel--” Loki stares. He really, genuinely stares. But he sees Baldur, with his leather jacket and what he wants to see instead is a stupid red sweater with a reindeer on it; he sees pale, blond hair pulled back into a bun, and what he wants to see is golden hair with two braids pulls back and fastened with clips the shape of hammers or music notes; he sees Baldur, his Baldur, and all he really wants to see is Thor.

Loki laughs. God, he _laughs_. For the first time, in a very, very, very long time, Loki doesn’t feel an anchor in his chest any longer. In fact, he doesn’t feel anything but relief.

“--what?” Baldur looks at him, perplexed.

“Nothing,” Loki says, smiling. He smooths his shirt and his tie, his suit, and his hair. “I look at you and I feel nothing, Baldur.”

“Come on,” Baldur says.

“No,” Loki says. “I don’t care about those words from you.”

Baldur looks at Loki, confused, askew. He seems as though he doesn’t know up from down or how it all got away from him and nothing has ever, in his life, pleased Loki more.

“I never thought I would say this to you,” Loki says. “Literally never. In my wildest dreams, you were never anything but the one I wished to give my entire life to. But now--”

Loki looks at Baldur, all smug, vicious venom. “You have _never_ treated me right, Baldur.”

Baldur tries to interrupt and Loki hisses at him.

“Shut up. You have _never_ treated me right. I was your plaything, something pretty, something pathetic and disposable. And my god, I let you treat me that way because I was so _stupidly_ , madly, horribly in love with you. You preyed on years of fucked up insecurities and used them against me.” If looks could kill, Baldur would fall dead on the spot. “I told you _everything_ and you used it to manipulate me into loving you further.”

Baldur looks--he’s flummoxed and angry and slack-jawed and slightly purple. He looks hideous. Loki could laugh.

“This is over. This hideous, toxic _thing_ between us is over,” Loki says. He has never felt stronger or more alive. “I have somewhere to be. You don’t have to leave, but you can’t stay here.”

“You don’t mean that,” Baldur starts.

“Oh I do,” Loki says. “I truly, genuinely do.”

“What--” With Baldur’s mouth hanging open like that, he looks a bit like a gaping fish out of water. “What on Earth has gotten into you?”

“Nothing new,” Loki says, grinning wide, bearing his teeth with little to no warmth. “It’s simply all of the parts of me you’ve never cared to see.”

Loki, nearly giddy, shoves Baldur out of the deck and down the stairs and onto the elevator.

“Goodbye, Baldur,” Loki says, cheerfully, right before the door slams shut. “Have a nice life. Or don’t. I really do not care.”

  
***

**  
Bucky.**

Sarah asks Bucky to put her to bed, surprisingly. She’s taken a shine to him, shyly asking him to play games with her or watch one of her cartoons or asking him, and not Steve, to read to her before bed. She likes the voices he makes, she says, and warms Bucky’s heart despite himself. He’s a critically acclaimed Hollywood actor, but this small, seven year old telling him she likes his voices really touches him.

Bucky tucks her in after she falls asleep to a chapter of _Harry Potter_. He puts the bookmark in carefully and sets the book on her side table. He turns off the light and shuts the door quietly behind him.

By the time he comes back down the stairs, Steve has his jacket on, a blanket tucked under one arm, a bowl of popcorn in one hand, and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Thought we could watch the stars,” he says with a smile.

  
There’s a little swing on Steve’s back porch that’s just big enough for the two of them. Steve’s little cottage opens up onto a small field where, he tells Bucky, there are rows of assorted flowers that bloom during the summer. Now, in the heart of winter, the field is an icy sort of white that glistens under the crisp, clear moonlight.

Steve settles into the swing and spreads the blanket over both of them as Bucky leans back into him. Steve lays an arm across Bucky’s middle and Bucky lays an arm on top. They cushion themselves in, just the two of them against the night sky.

“She likes you,” Steve says.

Bucky takes his glass of wine from him, the bowl of popcorn on his lap. Monty’s curled up to the right of Bucky, in what little space there remains on the swing. The dogs in this country really seem to like him.

“I can see why you like her,” Bucky says with a half smile.

“Yeah, sure,” Steve says. “There were a lot to choose from, but she was my favorite.”

Bucky smiles and drinks some more wine.

“Does she ask about her mom?”

“All the time,” Steve says. “I tell her every story I remember about Peggy. I want her to know her mom, even when she’s long gone.”

“How did you two meet?” Bucky asks. Steve is warm at his back and the moon is bright and beautiful. It feels like time has both frozen solid and is slipping away underneath them. Bucky hasn’t counted the days left in his head yet, but he can feel their ominous presence looming.

“It was my last year of college,” Steve says. “She did a year with us on exchange. I saw her in one of my art classes and--you know how love at first side is a cliche? This wasn’t. I saw her and I knew. Then I talked to her and she was--wow, she was wickedly funny and witty and smarter than any person I’ve ever known. She had that accent that made me weak in the knees and she could hold herself against anyone, on any subject. Actually, the first time I talked to her was after someone was trying to mansplain _Ulysses_ to her. She told them off and told them to go shove themselves, she was a literature major.”

Bucky smiles at that, imagining the scene.

“Was she?”

“God no,” Steve laughs. “She was doing photography, but she was so angry at him. I went up to her after and told her I agreed with her.”   

“Did you?” Bucky grins.

“God no,” Steve says. “I’ve never read _Ulysses_ in my life. But she could have said anything and I would have agreed with her. She knew it too and she called me out for being, in her words, a cad. I knew immediately I was going to love this woman.”

Bucky feels the melancholy settle in his stomach, but he still looks up at Steve. Steve looks down at him fondly and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“We got married a year later,” Steve says. “I knew what I wanted and who I wanted and I went for it. Luckily, I didn’t make too much of an ass of myself because she said yes.”

“You musta been so young,” Bucky says.

“22,” Steve says. “Everyone said we were making a mistake, but I knew we weren’t. We had Sarah three years later. Named after my Ma.”

“Did she meet Peggy?” Bucky asks.

“No,” Steve says, sadly. “She passed away two years before I met Peggy. She would have loved her, though.”

Bucky thinks about his own life, about how he’s 32 years old and dragging his own feet. He’s ruined his most stable relationship, he feels lost in his career, he doesn’t know who or what he wants to be. And here, next to him, Steve, also at 32 years old, has lived multiple lives. He’s been happy, he’s been sad, but he’s had entire lives worth having.

“Did she know?” Bucky asks. “That you liked men too?”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I tumbled out of the closet in high school when I realized I had a crush on a boy in the debate team.”

“Tumbled out?”

Steve laughs. “Okay, I realized I was bi and then I announced it to everyone and told anyone who had a problem with it that they could answer to my fists.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says, but he’s in awe. He’s in awe of this creature who always speaks his truth and never lets anyone take it from him. Bucky doesn’t know how to do that. He doesn’t know the first thing about being brave. But Steve does. And Peggy did too.

Steve presses another kiss to Bucky’s head.

“I don’t know how anyone competes with that,” Bucky says, quietly.

“With what?”

“True love like that,” Bucky says. “Something you know immediately. One that’s overwhelming, that sweeps you off your feet.”

Steve runs a free hand through Bucky’s hair.

“I think you get more than one chance,” he says, quietly. “At true love. It’s too cruel otherwise.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Bucky says. His stomach tightens. “What’s the point of true love if it happens more than once?”

“There are different kinds of love,” Steve says. “None of them any less or any less true than the one before. What if you give yourself to a person and then that person disappears? Isn’t it selfish to think you don’t get another try?”

“Isn’t it selfish to think you do?” Bucky replies.

“I think love is selfish,” Steve says. “And maybe that’s the point. You want to keep a person to yourself, for yourself. You want all of their time and their energy and their love. That’s why it can go so poorly. Because you have to balance your desires with someone else’s, otherwise it becomes twisted, toxic.”

“Is that what love is?” Bucky asks. “Wanting someone for yourself?”

“Yes,” Steve says. His fingertips brush Bucky’s cheeks and he looks down at him softly, so very softly. “I think that is one definition. One kind of love. But that’s not all because love is selfish, but it’s also selfless. It’s also wanting to make someone else happy, about caring about their happiness and well-being, even above your own or, at least, in addition to your own. It’s about finding that person who makes you better, who makes you want to be better for them, so you can make the world a better place for them. It can destroy, but it can also heal. It’s the most beautiful thing.”

The moment between them feels tender, as precarious as balancing on a thread. They watch one another with glowing, obvious eyes.

“Steve,” Bucky starts. Steve withdraws his hand and it’s as though he can tell what Bucky’s about to say. The atmosphere between them shifts. Bucky sits up.

“I know you can’t stay, Bucky,” Steve says. “Your life isn’t here and I get that. But people make long distance work all the time.”

“It’s not--” Bucky swallows. He looks down. “It’s not that. Or it’s not only that.”

Steve pauses.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s--” Bucky’s starting to feel nauseous. “It’s just that I. I’m not. I mean, I didn’t tell you. You can’t say things like that to me, when you don’t even know me. You think you do, but I’ve been lying, that’s who I am, I’m just--”

Suddenly, Bucky feels Steve hand brace on his shoulder.

“--a movie star?”

Bucky stops. He sucks in a breath and then forgets to breathe it out. His eyes feel like they’re going to bug out of his head.

“You know?”

“Bucky,” Steve says slowly. “You know you’re all over the Internet, right?”

Bucky gulps air like a fish out of water. He turns red. Is he nauseous or guilty or angry? Is it possible to be all three?

“You didn’t tell me,” he says.

“It was clear you didn’t want me to know,” Steve says, quietly. “I just wanted to see what you had been in, so I looked you up after that day we went to the pub and the bookstore. I didn’t--I didn’t expect to find everything I found, but it all made sense. Why you didn’t want to talk about it.”

Bucky breathes in and out through his nose. His head is spinning.

“Are you angry?” Steve puts down his wine glass. He’s starting to look stricken. “I’m sorry, Buck. I know I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to feel like you had to be someone different.”

Bucky should be angry. And maybe he is. But he’s also relieved. He opens and closes his fist and then looks at Steve.

“I just wanted some time,” he says. “To be someone else. To be myself.”

“I know that,” Steve says softly. “Don’t you think I, of all people, know that?”

Bucky remembers how they met and why. He looks ahead of them, unseeing, breathing shallowly.

“But you have been. I don’t really know who Bucky Barnes is,” Steve says, watching him. “And I don’t care. But I do know you. I know Bucky, and him I care about a lot. Him, I love.”

“You don’t care--” Bucky starts.

And then, all of the noise in his head comes to a grinding, resounding halt.

“You what?”

“I love you,” Steve says. He braces his shoulders, as though this is a challenge, as though Bucky will tell him he’s stupid or that it’s too soon to know or that what he’s feeling isn’t right. Steve Rogers says I love you like he says everything else, as though it’s his only truth, and that he, and only he, could possibly know the entirety of that truth. Bucky stares at him. “I thought it was obvious. I’m crazy about you, Bucky. I haven’t felt this way in--god, a long time. I didn’t think I could ever feel this way again. But I do.  I love you. I am in love with you.”

“You--” Bucky tries to absorb it, he tries to take Steve’s truth into his skin, the same way he absorbs the heat from Steve’s body. He tries to take the words that Steve says and pit them against what he had been told, so long ago, that he is unlovable, that he ruins everything he touches. “You can’t, Steve. It’s not possible.”

Steve touches his jaw again. He cups Bucky’s face, a thumb grazing Bucky’s cheek.

“Why not? Tell me who hurt you.”

And because he asks and because he’s Steve and because Bucky’s tired of lying, tired of holding this secret so close to his chest, him and only him, Bucky does.

  
His name was Brock Rumlow and he was on the football team at Bucky’s high school. In retrospect, it was all so cliche it makes Bucky’s stomach roil with shame. Brock had been the quarterback and he had come to see the school play. It had been Bucky’s sophomore year of high school and he hadn’t yet graduated to lead--that would be the next play, after Natasha Romanoff found him and put him in his place--but he had a rather large role and he had floppy, brown hair and bright blue eyes and a smile that charmed teachers and girls alike. Bucky Barnes was a well-hidden queer and it was eating at him, but he was also young and charismatic and beautiful. He was popular, for whatever that meant in high school. So was Brock, in a different way.

Brock had come to see the play, because one of his friends, Jasper, had been in the cast as well. During the after-party at someone’s house, Brock and Bucky had ended up talking. Maybe there had been too much in his jungle juice, but Brock had been funny and interesting and magnetic. He made Bucky feel like there was no one else around them. He had touched Bucky’s arm. He had ruffled Bucky’s hair. He had leaned in close, alcohol on his breath, and when he had, in the dark hallway of that house, kissed Bucky, Bucky had felt something inside him loosen. He had never been kissed by a boy before. He had his hand in Brock’s hair and Brock had his hand up Bucky’s shirt and they had found a room a little bit later.

But it wasn’t all drunken, mistaken, party sex. He and Brock had genuinely liked each other, for a time. Bucky had been stomach-roiling, weak-kneed, head over heels in love with him. He had worshipped the ground Brock walked on. He was his first boyfriend, his first love. Bucky thought he could be himself around him, not someone in the closet, or someone straddling two worlds, but just a boy in love with another boy and accepted because of, or despite, that life-shattering fact. Even when Brock had started pulling away, even when it was clear that he was also dating other women and that Bucky was his secret, Bucky didn’t care, because Brock was his secret too. They were each other’s secrets and that was romantic in a high school kind of way.

That was, until Brock got into college. He was a year above Bucky, so he was leaving before Bucky was. It became clear very soon after that Brock had no desire to continue their relationship. In fact, he wanted nothing to do with Bucky at all.

 _Look at you_ , Brock had said to him, that final fight. Bucky had told him he loved him. That he would follow him anywhere. _Closeted and clingy. Who could love someone like you? You ruin everything you touch._

Bucky had never recovered. He had never dealt with that teen-aged heartbreak, the trauma of someone he loved telling him point-blank that he was unlovable. He had internalized it instead, wrapping himself in other characters and pushing everyone away and away and away until, at the end, he had no one left but himself.

  
Steve presses kiss after kiss into Bucky’s hair. _It’s okay_ , he says. _It’s okay_ , he repeats. _It’s going to be okay_ , he promises.

  
They’re in Steve’s bed by now, Bucky bare back to Steve, Steve with an arm around Bucky’s waist. Steve kisses Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky shudders. His body is so sensitive, his feelings so on the edge that any touch of affection, anything less than pure, physical sex, is overwhelming.

“I’ve never said it to anyone since,” Bucky says quietly. His voice is thick, shaking.

Steve kisses his shoulder again and Bucky shudders, again.

“I don’t think I’m capable, Steve,” Bucky says. “I’m sorry.”

“Look at me,” Steve says and Bucky, after a moment, obeys.

He rolls over and Steve is propped up on an elbow, looking down at him with all of the kindness written into his nature.

“What he said,” Steve says, “Was wrong. What that cowardly, manipulative, selfish asshole said was completely, utterly, absolutely wrong. I need you to know that.”

Because Bucky’s never told anyone this before--not even Natasha--he’s never had someone tell him this back; that it isn’t true, that he isn’t unlovable.

“You do not ruin anything,” Steve says. He takes Bucky’s hand and kisses his fingertips, one-by-one. “You are lovable. You are loved.”

Steve leans forward, a kiss to Bucky’s mouth.

“You are so, very loved.”

Bucky feels the words sink into him, seep into his skin, and encircle his bones. He’s never known he’s needed to hear those words, specifically those. And now that Steve’s said them, now that he’s held him and meant it, Bucky doesn’t know how to begin to move forward from them.

“Steve,” Bucky says, and what he means to say is-- _thank you_. What he means to say is, _I don’t know if I love you, but I like you more than a whole lot._ What he means to say is, _you are the most incredible person I have ever met and I’ve never deserved anyone less._ But what he also means to say is, _I think I believe you_. _You tell me you love me and I believe you, because you, of all people, would never lie to me._

Instead, because Bucky’s insides are quaking and his head is spinning, and he has undergone an emotional catharsis that he’s still recovering from, he says, “What if we just enjoy what we have?”

Steve’s face is a carefully measured expression. It’s a stoic, understanding, compassionate work of art.

“Let’s just enjoy what we have now and agree that it was perfect. Let’s keep it like this, a perfect memory,” Bucky says. He’s babbling. He half means it and half doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’s terrified and he thinks Steve knows it. “After this, after all of this, we’ll go back to our lives and we’ll look back and it won’t change what we had. What we had was real and different and it’s over, but that’s okay. Because it was perfect. We were perfect.”

Steve’s breathing is shallow and Bucky can see a glimmer of wet in the depths of those blues, but Steve Rogers is nothing, if not understanding. He’s the most wonderful person in the world. And because he’s the most wonderful person in the world, he knows that what Bucky needs right now is this, this escape, this get out of jail free card.

So Steve holds back whatever he’s going to say, whatever he’s feeling, and just nods instead.

“Okay,” he says. “A perfect memory, then.”

And Bucky feels like shit for it, he honestly does, but he can’t help it, he doesn’t know how to process everything that’s happened at once.

Instead, he reaches forward, buries his hand in Steve’s golden hair, and pulls him forward one last time.

  
Two days later, Bucky has his luggage ready on the front doormat of Loki’s little cottage. Sarah’s said her goodbyes to him, made him pinky swear again, and told him not to watch too many Audrey Hepburn movies because he’s already a little dramatic and cries a lot. He had hugged her tightly goodbye.

Here, it’s just Bucky on the doorstep and Steve just inside. Bucky’s also said his goodbyes to Riley, who licked his face raw. Now Riley, seemingly sensing the abandonment, has retreated to the kitchen, sad and dejected. 

At the door, Steve’s trying to hold it together and so is Bucky. They both put on bright, false smiles.

“We’ll FaceTime,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, of course,” Steve says. “Sarah will want updates. We’re going to start watching _Howling Commandos_.”

“God,” Bucky looks pained. “Please don’t.”

Steve smiles and it’s a little watery.

“Thank you,” Bucky says. “For everything. I mean it.”

“Tell your invisible lady friend thanks,” Steve says. “For going to the bathroom that day.”

Bucky laughs. He swallows a sob and he laughs and he pulls Steve in by his scarf and kisses him one last time.

“See you later, Buck,” Steve says.

“See you later, Stevie,” Bucky says.

He lets him go and steps back. He picks up his suitcase and turns around and leaves.

  
***

**Loki.**

Loki pulls off his scarf and his gloves once he gets inside the building. Vali’s school had rented out a community theater in the Lower East Side for the production. No one actually wants to see a bunch of children put on a musical the day after Christmas, so attendance is sure to be low, just tired parents and begrudging siblings, none of whom will even glance his way, which suits Loki just fine. There’s a door off to the side of the theater, past the doors leading to the audience seating, that Loki assumes is meant to lead backstage. It’s from here that Loki sees a small, coppery head peek out.

“Oh!” Vali’s face _lights up_. “Mr. Loki!”

He comes out from the stage side door, his guitar cradled carefully in his arms.

“Should you have that with you?” Loki asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m too nervous to let it go,” Vali explains. “I keep practicing my parts, just in case I forget and ruin everything.”

Vali says it calmly, but the panicked look in his eyes is telling.

“If you ruin everything, I shall never speak to you again,” Loki says. Vali’s eyes widen. “So do not do that.”

Okay, that backfires. Vali looks even more panicked now. Sometimes, it is possible that Loki forgets that Vali is only ten years old and not accustomed to the sarcastic, bitter humor of adults.

Loki crouches down in front of him, so he’s looking up into Vali’s little face. He puts his hand on Vali’s on the guitar.

“I have heard you practice and practice and practice,” he says. “You are far better than I was at your age.”

Vali swallows.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Loki says. “Thor has said the same thing.”

“He did not!”

“He did,” Loki says. “Would I lie to you?”

“Probably,” Vali looks at him with scrutiny, but then smiles. “If you thought it would help me.”

It is incredible that a ten year old he has known for less than two weeks knows him this well.

“You will be the best guitar player any middle school has ever seen,” Loki says.

“I’m in elementary school still,” Vali points out.

“Yes, so think how impressive that is,” Loki says.

Vali laughs and his little shoulders slump a little, some of the tension sloughing off.

“You really think I’m going to do good?” he asks. “I invited Mrs. H. I don’t think she’ll come, but if she does--I don’t wanna disappoint her.”

“You could never disappoint her,” Loki says. “And I will be here.”

“And Thor?” Vali asks.

“Thor--” Loki falters. “Thor will try his best to come here. He told me to tell you that. He wouldn’t miss the best middle school holiday show with the best elementary school guitar player for the world.”

“All of that is wrong,” Vali says. “And very corny.”

“There is nothing wrong with a little corny, smartass,” Loki says and Vali laughs.

“Come here,” Loki says and, surprising both of them, wraps Vali in a hug. “Good luck. Remember, imagine the audience in their underwear if you get nervous.”

“Ew.” Vali looks grossed out.

“Precisely,” Loki says. “It is terrible advice. Now go.”

Vali takes a deep breath, gives Loki an uncertain, but grateful smile, and runs off backstage again.

Loki straightens, dusts off his suit jacket, and proceeds to the auditorium.

  
The community theater is cozy, with comfortable, deep purple seats, a high ceiling, and red velvet curtains masking the stage. There’s a lowered section for the orchestra and Loki can see a group of children with a variety of instruments in their hands. Vali doesn’t seem to be there, so Loki settles back into his seat to watch the stage.

A few minutes before the lights dim, a harried looking woman with dark hair, impeccable clothes, and a no-nonsense face taps Loki’s shoulder.

“Excuse me,” she says. “May I?”

Loki moves his legs so that she can go in past him. She thanks him and takes a seat down the row.

The lights dim, the orchestra starts playing an introduction, the curtains open, and they begin.

  
It’s a silly, fun, vibrant production. The children are in costumes and half of them forget at least some of their lines, but the other half make up for it by helping them along. The orchestra strings music in the background, never missing a beat, and whoever was tasked with set design actually outdid themselves, because it’s bright and colorful and encapsulates a childish love and joy for the holidays that the children, toddling around in their elf ears and reindeer antlers and Santa costumes, only enhance. It makes Loki feel like he’s young again, not the bad times, but the rare good times, with Hellbindi, learning how to play, or with Hellbindi, sharing hot chocolate, or with his mother, the one good memory he has with her, when, on a Christmas morning over two and a half decades ago, he had awoken to find a lumpy present wrapped in fading paper and found a beautiful stuffed horse inside.

Thor would love this, he thinks, when the lights shift into a spotlight and out from behind the set comes Vali, with his guitar, and two of his classmates, each on their flutes. They play Jingle Bell Rock, with children dressed as actual silver bells dancing around them, and Vali’s face is so concentrated on making sure the chords are all correct that he doesn’t notice when someone starts cheering for him, specifically him, in the audience.

Loki, heart thudding, does. He turns his head, and there’s Thor, just as he looked when he left Loki, his hands cupped around his mouth, hollering.

“Yeah!” he yells. “That kid on the guitar! He’s mine!”

Loki flushes crimson out of embarrassment, but he’s laughing too and when Thor sees him and throws himself into the empty seat next to him, he leans over and swats at him.

“Ass!” he says. “I told you not to be that dad!”

“But he’s our kid,” Thor says, beaming at him. “That’s our child up there.”

“You’re so--” Loki starts, embarrassed and pleased and delighted, actually _so fucking delighted_ that Thor’s made it, but he can’t finish what he’s trying to say. He likely doesn’t know what it was going to be, anyway.

“What happened?” he says instead. “You made it.”

“I told you,” Thor says, with a smile. “That’s our kid. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Oh for the love of God,” Loki huffs, but he can’t seem to stop smiling either. It’s so uncharacteristic of him that he tries to talk himself out of it, but Thor’s beaming at him like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen and Vali’s taking a spectacular solo of his own and he’s just told off Baldur, like actually told him off, like actually cut the beast off at its head and--

“My god,” Thor whispers. “I can actually see you thinking.”

“Shut up,” Loki says, with a grin. “Why are you here? Where’s Jane?”

Thor takes a breath, doesn’t take his eyes off of Loki.

“It’s over,” he says. “I got there and I saw her and she saw me and we both knew it was over. It wasn’t a mistake to let each other go. We weren’t making each other happy anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” Loki says. “But also you seem pretty happy to me.”

Loki, can actually think of no one happier than Thor Odinson.

“Yeah, well,” Thor says, grinning at him, embarrassed. “Maybe there’s a reason for that.”

Loki’s heart skips a beat.

On stage, Vali finishes the song off. Everyone applauds, the woman to the right of Loki most of all.

Loki, feeling a little funny, cheeks a little warm, turns to the stage and claps as well. Vali looks around and catches his eyes. He beams so intensely, it’s almost brighter than the spotlight itself. Then he looks a little shocked.

“Say,” Thor says, casually. “Do you have a date for New Year’s Eve?”

Loki bites his lip to keep from grinning. He turns to Thor and only then notices that Thor’s taken his left hand in his right.

“I’ll be gone by then,” he says, gently.

“Oh,” Thor says. He must have forgotten. He lets out a breath and genuinely seems to deflate, all six foot-too-many-inches of him.

“But,” Loki says, his lips curling up at the corners. “How do you feel about London?”

Thor blinks. Then his expression changes immediately, a grin flickering onto his features.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to write a musical for the West End.”

  
Vali comes barreling out the side stage door, his guitar in its case. Thor and Loki are standing close together, talking, when he comes skidding to a halt in front of them.

“Mr. Loki! Mr. Thor!”

“You did so good, buddy,” Thor grins. He bends down and gives Vali a hug. Vali scrunches his face when Thor ruffles his hair. “Seriously, you killed it. You wanna write songs with me?”

“Stop!” Vali says, laughing.

“No, I mean it,” Thor says, eagerly. “That’s how good you were. You were the best kid up there.”

“You were,” a voice says, behind Thor and Loki. The two of them turn and Vali’s eyes go wide.

Behind them is the woman who had sat in Loki’s aisle, the pretty, harried-looking, no-nonsense woman. She looks less harried now. She actually looks a little emotional.

“Why didn’t you tell me you played, Vali?” she asks.

Val turns pink, mumbles something none of them can understand.

“Which one of you is Loki?” she asks.

“That would be me.” Loki knows who she is now. He did call her, after all.

“Maria Hill,” the woman says, extending her hand to him. Loki shakes it. “I’m Vali’s foster mother.”

“You called Mrs. H?” Vali asks, looking at Loki.

Loki simply coughs noncommittally. Next to him, Thor looks like his face is going to break from affection.

“I thought she might like to see your debut,” he says.

“You should have told me,” Maria says. Vali looks chastened, but she shakes her head. “I’m not angry. It’s just--if I’d known, I would have made more of an effort.”

“He’s a good kid,” Thor says. “The best.”

“I know,” Maria says. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy, Vali. It isn’t you, I need you to know that. My clients are driving me up the wall. One of them in particular, disappeared without warning, and his publicist’s only just told me he decided to take an impromptu vacation without notifying anyone.”

Loki and Thor give each other a look.

“I’m afraid I’ve made a bad impression on you,” Maria says, bending down in front of Vali. “I never want you to feel you can’t come to me or ask me something. Even when I’m busy or seem like I’m in a bad mood. I’ve never done this before, but I want to be a good foster mother to you. If you’ll have me.”

Vali looks like he’s going to cry. Loki knows the feeling, to feel, after so long of bad and being alone, that something and someone good is there for you, in your corner.

“I want that too,” Vali says. Because he’s ten years old, he can’t really hide his sniffles. Maria smiles and pulls him into a hug.

Loki looks at Thor and the big idiot’s also tearing up.

“Jesus Christ,” Loki mutters under his breath, but he’s also smiling.

“Thank you both,” Maria says, straightening. “For what you’ve done for him. I know I’ve made mistakes and I should have prioritized better, but, we’re going to be a team now. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take him out to dinner, just the two of us.”

“Of course,” Loki says. “Merry Christmas, Ms. Hill.”

“Wait,” Vali says, putting his guitar down. He goes up to Loki and suddenly looks shy. He chews on his bottom lip and then takes a breath in. “I know you’re leaving soon. Will you visit again?”

Loki bends down so that he’s eye to eye with Vali.

“Of course. And you and Ms. Hill are welcome in England any time,” he says.

“You’ll call, right?” Vali asks.

“Of course,” Loki says. “How else will I know if you’re practicing?”

“Thank you, Mr. Loki,” Vali says. He launches himself at Loki, hugs him tight. “You’re real nice. I’m glad to have met you.”

Loki sighs and Thor chuckles next to him. Loki presses a kiss to the top of that copper head and lets him go.

Vali takes Maria’s hand in one of his, his guitar in the other, and then the two of them leave, hand-in-hand, talking the entire time.

  
Thor and Loki follow them out. Outside, it’s cool, a little windy. There’s snowflakes in the air, just barely, just enough to brush against their skin and disappear.

“Wow,” Thor says.

“Shut up,” Loki says, immediately, knowing what’s coming.

“You’re _such a nice guy Mr. Loki_ ,” he says, grinning broader and broader.

“ _You are so annoying_ ,” Loki gripes, turning to Thor, his voice loud and Thor grabs him by the wrist, pulls him in close.

Loki’s heart flutters. He looks up at Thor, the few inches the big blond has on him.

Thor brushes away a few flakes from Loki’s nose and cups his face.

“But we still have a date?” he says, quietly, with a smile. He’s always smiling or grinning or laughing or beaming when he’s around Loki. It makes him look absolutely deranged.

“Yes, fine,” Loki huffs, grumbling. His cheeks are warm. “But nothing fun.”

“Okay,” Thor says. He won’t stop looking Loki in the eyes. “I’ll make it as boring as possible.”

“Yes, thank you,” Loki says. His fingers are curled into the front of Thor’s coat.

“Just completely dull. A lot of paperwork. Signing things. Paperclips,” Thor says. Loki can feel his breath buffet across his cheeks.

“That would be great.” Loki inhales.

“Watching paint dry. Churning butter,” Thor says. He doesn’t break eye contact.

“Don’t get me hot and bothered in public, Odinson,” Loki says and Thor must have had enough because he pulls him close and frames his face and finally, _finally_ kisses him.

  
***

**  
Bucky.**

The driver, strangely the exact same one who drove him from the airport, greets Bucky enthusiastically.

“My American friend!” he says as Bucky gets into the car. “Have you had a nice time?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. He feels thick and heavy in his chest, lead creeping up his veins and weighing down his limbs. He closes his eyes and tips his head back. “It was real nice.”

“Will you be going back home now?” the driver asks as he pulls away from the cottage, down the slope of the hill Bucky had come up all of those days ago. It had only been two weeks, but it feels like an eternity, a different lifetime, a different Bucky.

Home, Bucky thinks. He’ll be going back home, to his expensive penthouse in his expensive city, with his cat, who he loves, and everyone else, who he doesn’t. There’s Nat, at least, and the show, he supposes, but he tries to think of what else he’s going back for and--the thing is, he can’t. He can’t think around the big Steve-shaped hole in his chest, the ache that’s pulsing so strongly it’s making it difficult for him to breathe.

He tries to imagine it, going back home, to an empty apartment. He’ll call some old friends, maybe go to the gym. He’ll finally return Maria’s frantic emails and voicemails, read some scripts. He’ll go on location to shoot for _Howling Commandos_ and then maybe he’ll do a movie in New York and then one in Los Angeles and then, in between another season of his show, he’ll do a different movie in Tokyo and then in Seoul and then in Montreal and--he’ll just keep moving and moving and moving, just him and his packed suitcase and that empty, gaping hole.

Sometimes he’ll call Steve and sometimes he’ll text him and other times he’ll FaceTime with both Steve and Sarah and he’ll see their faces and he’ll hear their voices and it will remind him that he could have more, but that he doesn’t, that he’s chosen not to. He’ll laugh at Steve’s stories, but he won’t be there for him, will miss the context. And soon, they’ll drift apart and he’ll forget about the smell of Steve’s skin and the feel of his hair, silky against his fingers, and the low rumble of his voice and the deep, vivid blue of his eyes. But worse, even worse, Steve will forget about him, forget that he loved him, forget that there was someone named Bucky Barnes who he slept with, on the ground, by the fireplace, one Christmas, when every moment was as perfect as it was ever going to be.

Steve’s going to forget him and the thought strikes Bucky so hard, he’s nearly bowled over by it. He can’t breathe, he feels like he’s suffocating. He rips his scarf off, unbuttons his coat, and he still can’t breathe and he’s not only spiraling, he’s crying, he’s actually fucking crying and it takes him just long enough to gasp a breath of air into his lungs and gulp back the burning heat in his throat to realize, _finally fucking realize_ , that he’s never felt this way about anyone, not even Brock, this overwhelming, crushing devastation he feels at leaving Steve Rogers behind, at never being able to see him or being able to hold him or talk to him or make him laugh ever again.

Bucky _wants_ to make him happy, he realizes. He wants to be with Steve and he wants to touch him and he wants to make him laugh and he wants to _have_ the context to his stories. He wants to see his face light up when Sarah says something, he wants to see him pick out another stupid colored sweater to wear, he wants to hear him laugh when Sam tells a joke, he wants to lean up and bury his hands in that soft, blond hair and close his eyes and kiss him, kiss Steve, and know that there is no place in the world he’d rather be.

And it’s stupid, Bucky thinks, it’s actually so fucking, horribly stupid that all of this time Bucky’s been scared about being out, about jeopardizing his career, when he should have been scared that by keeping himself in, by internalizing all the shit Brock said to him, when they were fucking _teenagers_ , he’s been shutting himself off to feeling anything at all.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Barnes,” he says to himself, out loud. “You have been such a fucking idiot.”

Because how many spirals, how many stupid, fucking, dramatic spirals does it take for one human being to realize, and finally admit, that the reason he can’t stop thinking about a person, the reason he’s been happier for two weeks, with this one person, than he’s been in nearly his entire life, the reason that he now feels like his entire chest is being cleaved in two, at the thought of leaving this person, the reason for all of this--is that Bucky Barnes is stupidly, irreversibly, undeniably, head-over-heels in love.

“Stop the car,” Bucky gasps out, the moment he can think and speak.

“Are you okay, sir?” the driver looks at him, concerned.

“Yes!” he says. “No! Jesus Christ, whatever, stop the car! Turn around!:”

“Do you wish me to stop or turn around, sir?” the driver asks. “They are two different commands.”

“I need to go back,” Bucky says. He’s gripping the headrest in front of him. He’s feeling borderline manic. “I need to go back. Don’t you see? Holy shit. Holy shit!”

“Sir?” the driver is watching him, boggle-eyed.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Bucky swears. “This is what I was afraid of? This is the feeling I’ve been running away from? It feels great. Jesus Christ, this is amazing!”

“Are you having an episode, sir?” the driver asks.

“God, I’m always having a episode,” Bucky says. “I’m done having episodes. I’m going back and I’m telling him I love him.”

“Him?” the driver asks. “Who?”

“Steve, driver,” Bucky asks. “Steve? The person I love?”

“Have you told Steve you love him, sir?”

“No, driver,” Bucky says. “That’s why I just said I need to go back and tell him I love him.”

“Perhaps you should do that instead of arguing with me, sir,” the driver says.

“Jesus Christ!” Bucky shouts and then scrambles out the door.

“Yes, sir,” the driver nods, sagely. “Very good, sir. I know you Americans are very religious.”

Bucky ignores him, slamming the door behind him.

“Sir, your luggage!” the driver shouts, but Bucky’s past it. Bucky’s past it all.

He starts to run.

  
Bucky stops at the gate to catch his breath, before shoving it aside and dashing up the pathway to the front of the cottage door. He wrests it open and tracks snow inside. He’s nearly wheezing, he’s breathing so hard.

“Steve?” Bucky shouts. “Steve!”

The door slams shut behind him. Riley starts barking at all of the movement and noise.

“Steve!” Bucky dashes through the living room and rounds the corner--and finds Steve at the kitchen table, shoulders slumped, something that looks suspiciously like tear tracks on his face. His eyes are red and his perfect, handsome face is splotchy.

“Buck?” Steve takes in a watery, rattling breath.

“Steve,” Bucky breathes out and he skids to a stop in front of him, drops to his knees.

“Bucky, what--”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “God, I keep fucking up and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I’ve been an actual, complete idiot this entire time. Natasha always tells me, you know? And I never listen to her which is probably the first sign that I’m an idiot, but I’m also kind of a proud jerk and you can’t teach a dog new tricks or something, but you can’t break it of its bad habits and my habits are so ingrained and stupid and--”

“Bucky,” Steve says. “Buck, breathe.”

Bucky takes in a deep breath and stops rambling. He looks up at Steve from where he is on the ground, kneeling, looking up at him. Just looking at Steve makes his heart swell. Just seeing his stupid face makes him want to be a better person. He can’t believe how afraid of this wonderful feeling he’s been this entire time.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “I’ve been a real moron.”

“Buck,” Steve’s voice is soft. “What’s going on?”

“I was leaving,” Bucky says. “I was leaving and I realized that I was running away again. I keep running away, that’s all I ever do. I’ve been running away all this time, since I was a kid. It wasn’t all Brock’s fault. He was an asshole, but I shouldn’t have let him have that power over me, no one should have ever had that power over me.”

Steve must sense that Bucky has to get this off his chest, because he doesn’t interrupt. He just watches him, quietly.

“I’ve been scared for so long, of being myself. I kept saying I wasn’t ready, but the truth was I was scared to admit to anyone who and what I liked because I was scared to admit it to myself. I was scared to accept it about me, to have it define me.”

“It doesn’t have to define you, Bucky,” Steve says, gently. “Nothing does.”

“No, I know,” Bucky shakes his head. “I know that now. Christ, I don’t care, Steve. I don’t care who knows that I like women and men, I do not give a fuck what they have to say about me. If they want to put me in a fucking box, they can knock themselves out. And if someone doesn’t want to hire me because of it, I’ll go find someone else to hire me. I’ll hire myself. I’ll write my own damned movie, I’ll direct my own damned play.”

Steve’s smiling now.

“That’s great, Bucky,” he says. “That’s really great.”

“The truth is, I like men and I like women. I’m bisexual, and that’s okay,” Bucky says. Then, he takes Steve’s hands in his own. He looks up at Steve. “The truth is also that I am crazy about this guy I know. He’s a huge nerd and he has terrible taste in music and he’s kind of an embarrassing sap. Like a huge one. He has a daughter who’s hilarious and he has a past, which is okay, and he’s majorly talented, like stupidly, sickeningly talented.”

Steve looks less floored than he looks like he’s going to start crying again any second.

“But he also makes me laugh and he makes me feel safe and loved and accepted and he’s hot--he’s so fucking hot.” Bucky grins. “And good in bed. _Great_ in bed. Like the best I’ve ever had in bed.”

Steve laughs, all strangled and wet.

“He’s the best person I’ve ever known,” Bucky says, his voice and expression softening. “You’re the best fucking person I’ve ever known, Steve.”

“Christ, Bucky,” Steve says. He shifts out of his chair, gets onto his knees in front of Bucky, mirroring him.

Bucky takes Steve’s face between his hands this time.

“I love you, Steve Rogers,” Bucky says. “This is my truth.”

“Oh my god,” Steve says. He’s laughing and crying at the same fucking time. “You’re so fucking dramatic, Barnes.”

Bucky laughs at that.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“You’ve literally done so many other things to my body and this is what you get shy about?” Steve smirks and it’s infuriating and Bucky has to kiss it off his dumb, stupid, infuriatingly perfect face.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Bucky says, even as he’s sucking face. He wants to taste Steve, he wants to take every part of him, every part of what he’s feeling for him, and drive it into himself, keep it with him every second of every day to remind himself what he’s capable of.

“Say it again,” Steve says, happily, breathlessly.

“I love you, idiot,” Bucky says. He kisses him once. Then he kisses him again. He kisses him over and over again. “I really fucking love you.”

  
“Anyway, I’m staying for New Year’s Eve,” Bucky announces, eventually.

Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He pulls back from their hundredth kiss and they stare at each other. He moves Bucky’s hair back from his back and smiles and kisses him again, softer this time, gently, like it’s something new.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you,” Bucky says, louder. Now that he’s said it, he’s going to keep saying it until they’re both sick of it. “I love you. Christ, I fucking love you.”

Steve laughs and pulls him closer.

“I can’t believe you were going to leave before New Year’s Eve,” he sighs against Bucky’s mouth. “Honestly, whose bright idea was _that_?”


	13. Epilogue: The New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pub is decorated for New Year’s Eve, all lights and silver and gold tinsel. The Christmas tree is still up in the corner and it still kind of smells like Christmas, but it looks like the days after, the days leading up to the New Year, new resolutions, new starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My least favorite part of The Holiday is the end, which, while sweet, leaves so much unanswered. So for you, for your final reading pleasure, and for me, to get some actual closure, a final chapter that attempts to give an ending to these idiots and give you as much cheesy, corny, sappy, tooth-rotting fluff as I can manage.
> 
> Thank you, and enjoy!

It’s snowing again by the time Bucky manages to find parking and clomp up the sidewalk, ruining the thin, delicate layer of white coating the ground. He pushes open the door to the pub and exhales, trying to shake some of the cold and flurries out of his lungs. The inside of the pub is as warm as the outside world is cold and Bucky’s face starts thawing by the time he spots a familiar head of blond. He starts smiling almost immediately, grins as he comes up from behind and wraps his cold, wet arms around Steve’s middle.

“Hey!” Steve yelps, shivering, because Bucky’s pressed his cold, wet nose to his neck. “You jerk.”

Bucky grins and presses a frigid kiss there and pulls away.

“James, the man just defrosted,” Natasha’s cool green eyes survey him, completely unimpressed, which, to be fair, for Natasha Romanoff, is somewhere between hostile and welcoming. In this case, it might even be the equivalent of the fuzzies, for her.  

“What about my needs?” Bucky asks, complaining.

Steve snorts and helps unwrap Bucky’s flurry-encrusted scarf from around his neck.

“How long were you out there anyway?” He dusts the snow out of Bucky’s hair. Bucky makes a face as small ice crystals flake off, all down the front of his coat, making everything wet. “Were you tasting the snow again?”

“Bite me, Rogers,” Bucky says.

“Later,” Steve says with a promising smirk and kisses Bucky.

“He knows he’s in public, right?” A blond man to the left of Natasha is saying, staring in confusion at Bucky and Steve. He has two glasses of beer in his hands. Natasha snorts and takes one from him. “As in, in front of people? As in, not in the privacy of his own home?”

“You know James doesn’t know how to function without drama, Clint, ” she says. “The man came out to People Magazine instead of just posting on Instagram like a normal celebrity.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Bucky says. Steve pulls away and hands Bucky his beer. Bucky thanks him by taking it and sliding an arm around Steve’s back. “For your information, I accidentally deleted my Instagram when I thought I was posting a snap story of Riley to my newsfeed.”

“Not a single part of that sentence is right,” Clint says. He puts an arm around Natasha’s shoulder and she must be at least a few shots in because she even allows it. “You know that, right? That not a single part of that sentence was correct?”

“Whatever,” Bucky says. “I’m a great millennial.”

“Is Barnes complaining about technology again?” a voice comes from somewhere behind Steve and Bucky. The two of them turn and a familiar face is coming in through the door.

Sam’s head is also covered in snow. The woman next to him, a knockout with an amused look on her face, reaches up and dusts it off too. Bucky feels a deep commiseration with Sam Wilson, something he never thought he would say.

“I swear, he and Steve are the oldest 32 year olds I have ever met in my entire goddamned life,” Sam says. “Did you know I had to teach them both what the cloud was the other day?”

“Wait,” Clint says slowly, looking between all of the parties involved. “Are you serious?”

“They thought it was an actual cloud,” Sam says, with a smirk. “Steve actually looked up at the sky.”

“What,” Clint stares, “the fuck.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. Next to him, Steve, oblivious to the besmirchment of his fine character, is wrapping Claire in a hug.

“Can’t believe you committed yourself to this idiot,” he says with a grin. She kisses both of his cheeks and he holds her left hand in his hand, looking at the rock on her finger.

“I thought might as well,” Claire says. “You know how Sam gets, all big eyes and pleading voice.”

“I know it well,” Steve laughs.

“But I’m still open to other offers,” Claire says with a sly smile. “I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.”

“Wait, I had a chance? I didn’t know--” Steve starts and Sam cuts in.

“Nope, too late. Nah,” he wraps an arm around Claire and tugs her to him. Claire snorts, her hair getting smushed against Sam’s shoulder. “I am done with you stealing from me, Rogers.”

“That was _one time_. And it was an _accident_ ,” Steve protests and he and Sam start bickering lightheartedly.

Bucky sips his beer and watches them. Steve and Sam have been friends for so long they can almost finish each other’s sentences. They’re comfortable together in a way that Bucky’s rarely seen in two other humans and it makes him grateful, to know them both and have had them both so readily accept him into the little net they’ve created for themselves.

Steve’s wearing a periwinkle sweater today, which is lurid and absurd, and he has a white collared shirt on underneath and he’s wearing khakis and his hair is combed over and he looks like a fucking boy scout, all happy and flushed, and neatly pinned in. Bucky never thought, in a million years, that someone who looked like such a fucking nerd could set his heart racing the way Steve does. But he stands where he is, watching Steve, and he can feel the nervous beat in his chest, something fluttery and electric and excited, so happy just to be close to Steve.

“You look disgusting,” Natasha says somewhere close to his elbow.

Bucky looks over at her.

“Sorry?”

“It’s a strangely good look on you,” she says begrudgingly. She takes a sip of her own drink. “He seems like a great guy. Weird and sweet and funny. I like him a lot.”

“Really?” Bucky asks. Bucky would probably kill for Steve, but Natasha’s opinion still means a lot to him. “He’s the best person I’ve ever met.”

“You seem different around him,” she says. “More yourself than you’ve been in a long time. Less of a complete neurotic mess.”

“I’m still a neurotic mess,” Bucky chuckles. “But it’s better with him. If I get stuck in my head, he brings me back down to Earth.”

Natasha just hums as they watch the scene. The pub is decorated for New Year’s Eve, all lights and silver and gold tinsel. The Christmas tree is still up in the corner and it still kind of smells like Christmas, but it looks like the days after, the days leading up to the New Year, new resolutions, new starts. Drax has given everyone little poppers and gold tinfoil hats and Gamora is doing the job of both of them, looking aggrieved at the idiocy that surrounds her on a daily basis. Bucky feels relaxed here, at home, ready to just exist or start his next adventure.

“You’re sure about this?” Natasha asks.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I talked to Tony. We don’t start filming again until later in the year, so I don’t have to be back for a while.”

“Maria was pissed,” Natasha says. Her voice is serious, but her eyes are amused. “She threatened to dump your ass at least a dozen times.”

“Aww, Maria’s all talk,” Bucky drawls, drinking more of his beer. “She and I have an understanding.”

“I don’t think you understand the understanding you actually have,” Natasha says.

“The play runs for three months,” Bucky says. “After that, I promised her I’d look at scripts that film in England, until the show’s back.”

“That’s not forever,” Natasha says.

“No,” Bucky agrees. “But it gives me enough time to figure this all out.”

“You think there’s a this?” Natasha asks. “A real, long-term this?”

Bucky takes a shaky breath. If she had asked him this even a week ago, he would have spiralled into a human-shaped disaster. In fact, a week ago, he had basically done just that. But now, he just thinks of Steve’s hand in his, his face when he told him he’d taken a run at the West End, about the little place they’d both found for him in London--a place small enough for him, but big enough for Steve and sometimes Sarah to visit on the weekends. It still makes Bucky dead nervous, but for the first time, in a long time, he’s excited to be acting.

“Sabrina,” Natasha murmurs. “That’s actually my favorite Hepburn.”

“Really?” Bucky looks at her, surprised. He had no idea that his best friend liked old, romantic movies, let alone Audrey Hepburn ones.

Natasha just hums. Even Natasha Romanoff holds surprises.

“Save me and Clint two tickets,” Natasha says, patting Bucky on the shoulder. She straightens and gives Steve, who’s approaching the two of them, a simmering smile. “Rogers. If you’re stealing Barnes away from us, you have to at least promise to keep him for good. I could use a break from the drama.”

Steve gives her a wolfish smile. He slides his arm around Bucky’s back again and presses a kiss to his temple.

“He’s promised me he’s giving up drama for the new year,” he says.

Natasha lets out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Good one,” she says, a touch to Steve’s shoulder as she slips past him. “You’re funny, Steve.”

Steve looks after her as she disappears into the crowd.

“I like her,” he declares.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Bucky groans.

Steve smiles. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. He’ll ask this sometimes, not because he’s worried Bucky’s going to fall apart or because Bucky’s going to embarrass him, but because he genuinely, truly cares.

“No,” Bucky says. “I’m starving.”

Steve’s eyes widen. He pats Bucky’s face, his neck, his shoulder, with a hand.

“Are you okay? How long’s it been since you’ve eaten? Three? Four minutes? My god.”

“You are _such an asshole_ _Steve Rogers_ ,” Bucky says loudly and Steve grins and laughs and kisses him smack on the mouth.

“I know,” he says, eyes twinkling. “No one will ever believe you though.”

“I can’t believe this,” Bucky says. 

Steve chuckles, then offers Bucky his hand. “Sam and Claire are holding a table for us. Come on. The show’s about to start.”

  
The pub’s open mic night for New Year’s Eve is a bit grander than its usual open mic affair. The boss, a weird young man by the name of Peter Quill, has made sure the slightly raised stage area has a spotlight positioned on it, with a glittering, silver ball hanging just overhead. It’s unclear whether, at midnight, the ball will drop all ten feet to the ground or if it will continue hanging there, spinning and reflecting discs of light onto every surface of the pub.

To the side, Loki stands, his palms sweaty. His chest hurts a little, pure, raw nerves threatening to choke him. This was stupid of him. He’s good at legal patents and contracts and reading books and memorizing random facts that he can use to exert his prowess during rounds of pub quizzes, not-- _this._ He’s almost shaking from anxiety. 

Honestly whose bright idea was this--he barely manages to make it through the thought before two large hands rest on his shoulders.

“I can _see_ you thinking,” a familiar, deep voice rumbles in his ears.

“This is all your fault,” Loki says waspishly, turning around. “I am going to make a complete fool of myself and you know who you will have to blame for sleeping alone tonight? You and only you.”

Thor grins at him. The idiot has his hair tied back, his now-customary two braids pinned in by his favorite silver clips. He’s wearing a dark t-shirt under a maroon, velvet jacket. He looks mouthwateringly good and Loki is irritated to find that even as he’s threatening the big oaf, he’s also thinking about how good it will feel to undress him after all of this is over.

“Are you undressing me with your eyes?” Thor asks, eyebrows raised.

“No,” Loki snaps. “I am thinking of all of the ways to kill you for my impending humiliation.”

“Well at least you’re not thinking about cannibalism this time,” Thor says. “But we should talk about how often you turn to murder at some point.”

Loki is about to snap at him, when Thor digs his thumbs into Loki’s shoulders and starts moving them in soothing circles. Loki is tense, anxious, coiled and ready to strike, but a few moments later he’s exhaling some of that paranoia out. His muscles relax a little and Thor offers him an appeasing smile.

“You could play this in your sleep, Loki,” he says. “You wrote this.”

“We wrote this,” Loki amends.

“Yes,” Thor says. “And I will be up there with you, beside you.”

“You won’t be the one singing,” Loki mutters.

“I don’t have the voice of an angel,” Thor says and the thing is, he’s actually sincere enough to mean it.

“God,” Loki says. “Vali was right. You _are_ corny.”

“Speaking of, I asked Bucky to record it,” Thor says. “So we could send a video to him. He texted me ten times this morning to make sure I didn’t forget.”

“I cannot believe you text every single day,” Loki says.

“So do you,” Thor says with a snort.

Loki chooses to ignore him. He tries to take a deep breath instead.

This close to him, Thor looks at him with kindness and love that could break a lesser creature. Luckily, or unluckily, Loki is just enough of a viper to absorb that kind of feeling and give him an eyeroll for his efforts. Thor doesn’t mind. When no one’s looking, Loki fits his hand into Thor’s, like there’s no place else he’d rather be.

“You’re going to do great,” Thor says. “I know you will.”

“You are so certain about everything,” Loki sighs.

“Not about everything,” Thor says. “But about you, always.”

He presses a kiss to Loki’s forehead and Loki warms at the touch. It’s only been a few days, so it makes sense that his heart still lurches whenever Thor touches him or showers him with attention, but it’s still jarring for him to feel this way, so fully, for someone else. Baldur seems like a lifetime ago. Loki hasn’t thought of him a single time since Thor kissed him in the snow.

  
It’s an hour to midnight when the previous act finishes. She’s some singer Steve really likes, but this time the traitor barely pays attention to her. He catches Loki’s eyes as Loki scans the audience nervously. Steve gives him two thumbs up and an encouraging grin, so Loki flips him off. Steve laughs and whispers something to Bucky. Bucky, too, gives him two thumbs up and an encouraging grin. Bastards, all of them.

“Ready, babe?” Thor murmurs in his ear as Peter Quill introduces Loki and Thor.

“As a fatal disease,” Loki replies.

“That’s my cheerful, spirited boyfriend,” Thor grins. He kisses Loki’s temple before shepherding him onto the stage.

  
Loki’s heart thuds in his chest rapidly, a little like an automatic rifle spitting out bullets one after the after, in rapid succession. The spotlight is blinding and hot on him and he thinks he must look ridiculous, in his leather pants and green shirt and black velvet military jacket that Thor said looked sexy and Loki, in a moment of uncharacteristic weakness, had believed. He has his hair half pulled back, half curling on his shoulders and he’s lined his eyes in kohl, not to look any sort of part, but because they bring out the green within. He’s just the right side of curated, but he feels like a fraud all the same.

His palms are so sweaty, the guitar nearly slips from them. He might actually throw up on stage.

Behind him, Thor gives a tight, reassuring squeeze to his shoulder before settling off to the side.

Then it’s just Loki, in the spotlight, a stool for him to sit on and the microphone in front of him, living out a fool’s dream. It just so happens that the the fool happens to be him, and the dream happens to be his too. He takes a breath and tries to channel some of the confidence he had attempted to give Vali before his own performance.

“I have never done this before,” Loki says into the microphone, lowly. “But 2017 has been a dumpster fire and I thought I would set alight to myself in homage before the new year comes in quieter.”

There’s a smattering of chuckles in the audience and Steve, Bucky, and Sam all give him simultaneous thumbs ups. Loki has to bite back something between a smile and a groan. He never should have made friends.

“Anyway,” he says. “This is something I wrote with my--an idiot I know. It is about what to do when your entire life is words and you still do not have the words to say what you wish to say. So, perhaps it is a bit morose, and for that, you may all kindly direct your complaints to Thor.”

Behind him, Thor lights up and waves like he’s the fucking Queen of England or something.

Loki sighs and starts playing.

  
He finds that his nerves last only so long as it takes him to string out the first chord. It’s the friction against the pads of his fingers, the feel of the guitar, a New Year’s present from Thor, in his arms, the reverberations that sink through his limbs, into the holes in his bones. Suddenly, Loki is young again, watching Hellbindi play or watching Hellbindi teach him, a child who wants only love and affection and finds them both, if not in people, then in this thing, this one thing that he can call his own. Loki breathes the music and it takes from him all of his insecurities, all of his anxiety, for a moment, all of the weight he carries with him, wears on a daily basis.

Here, at the center of it all, eyes watching him, the light beating on his face, all he can feel is the music he’s creating and the person behind him, supporting, providing the harmony, filling in the gaps he leaves, and finishing their creation together.

Loki told Thor once that the only person holding him back from this, from this very moment, was himself. So for the dying days of this year, a year that had been, for better or for worse, both better and worse, he had tried to look at himself and feel the way Thor had made him feel that day, when he had played Loki his theme song.

He sings, this song they wrote together, a creation of their own, born from a weird and transient moment, talking about space and giraffes and poetry, three things absolutely ridiculous to string together, but he supposes that’s how art is made sometimes. His voice, low and smooth and, strangely, a little throaty in song, was made for this music or, perhaps, this music was made for his voice. Either way, it blends together, the perfect marriage of Loki, of his essence, and a better version of himself, a version he’s trying to be with Thor.

He forgets himself so much that it isn’t until Thor comes up next to him and kisses his temple, right there on stage, in front of everyone, that he realizes he’s finished and everyone is cheering.

“How did that feel?” Thor asks quietly and Loki is so overwhelmed, so surprised that he was able to do this, this thing so unlike himself, that all he can do is stare back at Thor and say, “Thank you.”

Thor smiles down at him, eyes crinkled at the corners, proud in a way he can’t be bothered to hold back.

“Ready for the next?” he asks.

Loki takes a breath and nods.

  
Everyone congratulates him when he and Thor finally put away their instruments away and emerge from the stage.

“Wow, Loki,” Steve says, grinning. He claps a huge Steve-hand on his shoulder and Loki sways a little under it.

“That was lovely,” Claire agrees.

“Okay, for the record, if you were ever home and sang in the shower and I heard you sing in the shower, I’d have told you to do that way earlier,” Sam says with a grin. “But since not a single part of that ever happened, I guess it’ll have to be the thought that counts.”

Loki snorts.

“Thank you.” He feels uncomfortable under all of the attention and, luckily, all of his new friends are self-aware enough to release him from their radars and turn their attentions back to one another.

“Hey,” Bucky says, sliding next to Loki with a grin. He hands him a drink. “This is for you. That was good shit.”

“Thanks,” Loki says. He takes the drink gratefully.

Somewhere to the side, Steve and Thor are conversing animatedly about God knows what. They’re both relatively the same size, although Thor is a few inches taller. Thor’s hair is longer and Steve’s is shorter. They both have stupidly blue eyes. They look like they’re trying to out-smile and out-good nature each other. Bucky and Loki watch them both with unease.

“They’re like, too good-looking, right?” Bucky asks after a minute, squinting.

“Do not look at them directly,” Loki says, taking a sip. “They will break your eyes.”

“It’s not right,” Bucky declares. “That they should be like that. When we’re--well, I’m a mess. And buddy, you--”

“Yes,” Loki agrees. “You are not wrong.”

“Right?” Bucky says. He sighs, takes a few nuts from the bowl on their table and pops them into his mouth. “Can’t believe we’re being tortured this way.”

“It must be some punishment for a past wrong,” Loki says. He’s hard pressed to keep his mouth thin and severe when Thor’s hair is falling loose and his hand is on Steve’s shoulder and Steve has a smudge of paint on his wrist and they’re both--looking the way they are.

“He’s a good guy,” Bucky says, after a minute. “Thor. Like, a really good guy. Too good.”

“Yes, we all have our flaws,” Loki says with a smile. “Steve is unbearable. You cannot stay in the same room as him for too long without beginning to feel like you need to volunteer with the needy to even be able to look at him.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Bucky says with a frown. But then he grins. “But you know, even Mr. Perfect has his flaws. Did you know he hates the Beatles?”

Loki frowns.

“Who hates the Beatles? He lives in Liverpool.”

“Thank. You!” Bucky exclaims loudly.

As though on cue, both Tall Blond and Beautifuls look over at their boyfriends.

“Do you get the sense we’re in trouble?” Bucky says, uneasily.

“Run while you can,” Loki whispers and puts his beer down as Thor comes up to him.

“Hey,” Thor says with a grin. “Steve and I were thinking of going up to the roof.”

“Together?” Loki asks. “If you are going to make out, at least allow Bucky and me the courtesy of watching.”

Steve chokes, turning a little red, but Thor is unfazed. Instead, he brushes a hand against Loki’s waist.

“Would you like to see that?”

“Mm,” is all Loki says, his eyes glinting mischievously.

“Here, I got this for you,” Steve says, to the side, shoving a gold tinfoil hat onto Bucky’s head.

“Aww, honey, you shouldn’t have,” Bucky says with a drawl. He pulls Steve in by the collar and tries to kiss him, but his face smashes into Steve’s hand instead.

“Not until midnight, Casanova,” he says.

“Since when are you kiss shy?” Bucky asks.

“Rules are rules,” Steve says.

“Since when do you follow rules, Rogers?” Loki asks.

“Wait, what?” Bucky looks between them. “Steve hates rules?”

“Oh dear,” Loki says, innocently. “Did you forget to tell Barnes how many times you’ve been arrested?”

Steve turns red and starts coughing and Bucky turns to him with wide, shocked eyes, and Thor drags Loki away from them and up the stairs to the roof.

  
“It’s _freezing_ ,” Loki says, teeth chattering.

“It is the dead of winter, Loki,” Thor says.

“How do you expect us to last to midnight when I will freeze to death before?” Loki asks.

In response, Thor wraps his big bear arms around Loki.

“Better?” Thor asks.

Loki looks up at him. Behind, Thor’s head is framed by the dark, night sky, stars and constellations framing his golden hair.

“Mm. Do you think--” Loki says, with a whisper.

Thor leans in close.

“Yes?”

“That--”

“Yes?” Thor breathes out.

“--Thori is doing well?” Loki blinks at him innocently.

Thor stares at him and then puffs out laughter, lets his forehead drop against Loki’s.

“You are such a tease,” he says with a groan. And then, “I can’t believe you named that dog Thori.”

Loki grins. Before he returned to England, he and Thor had gone back to that pet store and Loki had finally adopted that beautiful, chocolate lab. He was very happy to be with Thor, but he was even happier to have the cutest and best puppy in the entire world.

“Did you see what a disaster he was? He peed on you immediately,” Loki says. “What else could I have named him? He was a Thori.”

Thor snorts.

“I am sure he is chewing on your furniture or on Riley’s tail as we speak.”

“What a good boy,” Loki says, happily.

Thor sighs and nuzzles Loki’s nose. It’s rare that Loki allows such pure moments of unadulterated affection, but he’s freezing and he’s thinking about his (their, secretly) dog and he forgets to be prickly for three seconds.

“Sam is moving out this weekend,” Thor says. “Then I can take his room.”

“It is a fine room,” Loki says.

“And your place in London--” Thor begins and Loki stops him with a hand over his mouth. Thor grins into it, because that is all he ever does around Loki.

“Barely fits me,” Loki says. “I can show you to an area you can afford. Perhaps we will see one another once every other week, that will be nice.”

Thor snorts and kisses Loki’s palm.

“I’m sleeping in your closet, with the dogs.”

“Luckily, I am used to sleeping in my office, on my couch,” Loki says, sweetly.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to sleep in a fancy office…” Thor starts and Loki pushes him away.

“You are insatiable,” he says and Thor levels him with a vaguely suggestive grin.

Loki doesn’t get a chance to answer before the door to the roof opens and the rest of their party spill back out.

  
There’s a sound system set up on the roof, lights strung about, and a few heat lamps here and there, so by the time Peter Quill starts the music, it’s actually not unpleasant to be on the roof, chatting with friends, swaying to whatever music Gamora, who has commandeered the sound system and playlist, chooses to put on, or just standing in a corner, whispering with a beloved one.

Ten minutes to midnight, Bucky rests his head on Steve’s shoulder as they look out onto the city.

“Ready for the new year?” Steve asks, quietly.

“I brought in last year wasted,” Bucky says. “I threw up into a toilet for half the night and Dottie had to make sure I didn’t drown in my own vomit. She was so disgusted, we didn’t even kiss at midnight. I’m ready for something different.”

“How’s your stomach?” Steve jokes and Bucky just gives him a smile.

“I’m giving my first interview this weekend,” Bucky says in answer. He takes a breath.

“Do you want to--would you--come with me?”

Steve’s eyes widen.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I want to keep you and Sarah out of the spotlight if I can. Definitely Sarah. I don’t want everyone to know any of our business. But I still want you there with me, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Buck,” Steve says and he seems genuinely touched. “Of course. But you don’t have to do this, you know. You don’t have to come out or explain yourself, not on my behalf.”

“I do,” Bucky says. When Steve goes to protest, he shakes his head. “Not for you, for me. I’ve been running from this for so long. It’s time I faced it. I _want_ to face it.”

“Always with a flair,” Steve says with a smile. He presses a kiss to Bucky’s crown.

“I am an acteur,” Bucky says, with a flair.

Steve laughs and squeezes Bucky’s shoulder and they continue watching the inky Liverpool skyline, heads bent together, whispering and laughing and touching, the water shimmering under the moonlight before them.

  
Five minutes to midnight, on the other side of the roof, Thor lifts Loki up, ignoring his protests, spins him around and sets him down close to him, looking down at him, in time with the music.

“Just because I said you couldn’t, doesn’t mean you need to prove you can,” Loki says, gasping slightly against Thor.

“That’s exactly what that means,” Thor says. “Do you know how testosterone works?”

Loki grumbles.

“What’s your wish for midnight?” Thor asks. His hands are on Loki’s waist. Loki’s hands are at Thor’s sides. They sway, close together.

“To start the new year, proud of being single,” Loki says.

Thor snorts and pulls him closer against him.

“No, really.”

Loki sighs. He tilts his head back, half looking at Thor, half looking up at the sky.

“To...be fearless, I suppose. To let go of the past. To…” He does look at Thor this time, with a smile. “--do what I would like to do, within reason.”

“And the consequences?” Thor asks with a smile.

“Bear them,” Loki says. “Or make another decision. Either way, it will be my own.”

“Loki,” Thor breathes, looking at him.

Loki knows, even before Thor speaks. He smiles lazily, chest tight, his heart beating fast.

“Yes?”

“I love you,” Thor says, touching his face, his hair.

Loki laughs, a tinkle of a laugh. He feels warm, so very warm.

“I know,” he says. “You are rather obvious.”

“Hey,” Thor says, with a frown. “What about--”

“Shh,” Loki says, hand over Thor’s mouth. “Listen.”

  
In the background, the crowd starts chanting the countdown.

Ten--the audience tenses, chattering come to a quiet.

Nine--Gamora turns the music down, leaving some on to drift through the air, quiet and lazy.

Eight--somewhere in the distance, someone’s already setting off small fireworks.

Seven--a cool breeze whips in off the water, making Bucky shiver against Steve, Steve’s arms around him.

Six--Loki’s phone buzzes against his pocket, a text message from Vali, _Happy New Year Mr. Loki!!!_ , five hours from midnight himself.

Five--Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand, breathing, just breathing.

Four--Loki looks at Thor, really looks at him.

Three--Claire’s laughter comes from somewhere, sweet and clear, in response to something Sam has said.

Two--Natasha, despite herself, takes Clint’s hand in her own, Clint’s grin is blinding.

One--everything stills, for a heartbeat, for a brief, still, second.

  
Suddenly, fireworks explode in the air, party poppers go off, one by one by one, the music turns up louder, and there’s cheering, cheering from everywhere, cheering from everyone, cheering from across the entire city. A new year. A new hope. A new chance.

  
Bucky frames Steve’s face between his hands, pulls him down to him, closes his eyes and presses their mouths together. He lets go of everything he’s been holding onto, his fears, his insecurities, his anxiety, his inability to function, years and years of being paralyzed, immobile and lost, and kisses him, this person he cares for, this person he loves, this person who makes him want to be a better person and for whom he wants to change the world for the better. This person, his person, he has made, in such a short period of time, his family.

Steve, smiling, grinning, nearly crying because he’s Steve, holds Bucky’s face within his own hands and kisses him back.

  
Loki, his heart in his throat, his chest beating in a wild, erratic rhythm, looks up at Thor. Thor, who is still grinning, laughing, smiling, beaming at him. Thor, who is watching him with his bright, bright blue eyes. Thor, who is waiting.

“Idiot,” Loki says. “I love you too.”

And then, with a laugh, breathlessly, he kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it! Did anyone notice that this fic is somehow /90,000 words/ because I certainly did.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and commenting and recommending and leaving kudos! It really made my holiday season sweeter to see how many people enjoyed this little tale I was (appropriating) writing. If I haven't heard from you yet, would love to hear from you now, and for those who left me little bits and pieces along the way--you're the best and I appreciate you.
> 
> See you all around for The Return of the Space Gays!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed/are enjoying this fic, I'd love to hear from you in comments. And if not there, you can find me reblogging gay shit over at [@spacerenegades](https://spacerenegades.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr!


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